


From Wood and From Ivory

by vamm_goda



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Awkwardness, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Fictionalized Teams, High School AU, Hockey Ensemble - Freeform, Let's pretend Juniors doesn't exist, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Rivals to Lovers, Sidney Crosby is an emotional failbot, stupid boys doing stupid things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-11
Updated: 2011-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-25 20:49:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 91,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vamm_goda/pseuds/vamm_goda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sidney's always had a very precise plan for his life: Captain the Seabirds to a championship, make it out of high school, and make it big in the NHL. Then Alex Ovechkin happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of those 'Let's pretend that they're all the same age/went to the same school/Juniors don't exist' AUs. I play loose and fast with leagues.
> 
> Thanks to Kara, for putting up with me chatficcing probably 90,000 words of this at her throughout the last few months  
> belial provided the amazing, amazing art. This never would have been done without all the cheerleading, support, and belief I received. ♥

[   
](http://photobucket.com)   


But I'll make my own colleague  
From wood and from ivory  
And reap the rewards of proximity

\- Fair to Midland, "A Wolf Descends Upon The Spanish Sahara"

 

“Hey, Sid. You hear the news?”

Sidney sighs, continues his crouch-rummage-stand-shove crap into locker-repeat pattern that he’s been following since he got to school. All the books he’d dragged home over the break went back into the locker with military precision, homework safely tucked into folders and each folder assigned to a certain textbook.

“No, Colby,” he says after a few more seconds, once his brain is online and back with the program. “I just got back, and unless it was on a banner in the commons let’s just assume I haven’t.” He’s not talked to any of the guys since before break and it’s only first period so no, he hasn’t heard any sort of news at all. He doesn’t really like to talk to anyone this early in the morning, though apparently just because Colby is his oldest friend or something he’s determined to be an exception.

Colby blinks at him in shock—as though Sidney has ever heard _any_ of the gossip. The thing about the locker room, though, is that it’s really just about as bad, or good, as the old folk’s home. They love to talk shit, love to have shit to talk about, and Colby is a touch better than Flower only because he keeps his mouth shut on what he hears most the time.

“Jesus, Sid. Get with the program, there’s more to life than hockey. Though this is about hockey.” He gestures Sidney closer, leaning forward as though he’s sharing a great confidence, pitching his voice low so Sidney has to lean in if he wants to hear him. He’s almost expecting a wet willie, to be honest. Certainly not what he hears.

“Nikita went home to Moscow sometime this weekend.” Colby pauses for effect, and when Sidney doesn’t much react he sighs and continues. “Jesus, Sid, show a little emotion about that. The way Geno’s talking, he’s not coming back.”

That’s enough to have him pausing, half turned and glancing down junior hall to the couple senior lockers that got exiled here. And sure enough, there’s Geno. Geno, and no Nikita, no smaller Russian trailing after the older boy like a redundant shadow.

“Are you sure?”

Colby looks completely confused, though in his defense that’s a pretty usual expression for him. “Didn’t you get his texts, Sid? He was completely out of it most of the weekend. Just kept repeating stuff in Russian and grouching any time we tried to call him.”

That explains the one message from Nikita he had gotten on Saturday. All it had said was _Tell Geno I’m sorry_ and he hadn’t understood at the time what exactly it was that Nikita thought needed apology. He thought maybe he’d broken something that belonged to him, or maybe he was talking about his less than stellar play in their last game. “I’ll go talk to him.” He closes his locker, twisting the dial fastidiously a few times before slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “See you later.”

He gets the feeling the hand on his shoulder is meant to deter him from going after Geno, but he shrugs Colby off and jogs over. He’s slamming his locker shut with vigor when Sidney shoulder checks him lightly, making him look over.

Shit, he really does look pretty bad.

“Hey, I. I heard about Nikita, I’m really sorry.” It’s weak as hell but he’s not sure what else to say. He’s never really seen this much of a pained expression on Geno’s face; honestly, it’s throwing him off a little bit. “That’s um. That’s a major thing to happen over a weekend.”

“He friend, Sid. I miss him.” Geno’s voice is pitched too calm, too smooth and too practiced, like he’s controlling everything really strictly. Sidney begins feeling like a worse person because of course. Sometimes he forgets, though he’s not sure how, that Geno’s not from around here, that the people who come to their games with video cameras aren’t his parents, that Nikita was the only person around who spoke his language. That really Geno was the only one who could ever get Nikita to talk even though he spoke English better than some of the native speakers Sidney’s met over the years. Off ice the kid had been pretty and unpredictable and prone to taking offense, but on the ice he skated better than most guys older than him, he had been on their second line for a reason. But apparently he’d packed up, gone home and left Geno here like some sort of stranger in a strange land.

That doesn’t feel like one of his thoughts. He looks down at his book and yeah, Heinlein it was.

“I know,” he offers again, making his voice sound stronger. “I’m sorry, Geno. I know it’s gonna mess up your line, too. Does Patch know about this? We’re gonna need a team meeting, you know, decide where we want to go from this.”

“Sid . . .” Geno’s voice sounds almost threatening, certainly dark and a touch frustrated, but he cuts it off after just that one warning, and Sidney gets it. He does, eventually. If given a running start.

“If you wanna hang out after school, maybe run a few drills or some one-on-one?” He knows that for most people that’s not exactly the most comforting thing in the world, but it’s the best he has, and Geno knows how to take what Sidney has.

“Yes,” Geno decides after a split second of thought. “Run plays off of practice.”

It’s a testament to how well they’ve meshed off ice that Sidney doesn’t need more than a split second to place the words into context. “We can do that, too. Long as you don’t try something fancy and hurt yourself.”

“Hurt you,” Geno jokes in a big, rumbling laugh, the first touch of a smile in his face and Sidney takes that as invitation to snort, push him out of his way as he heads for his class.

“You wish,” he throws over his shoulder as he leaves Geno in the hall shaking his head at him.

First period is AP English, because Sidney knows, he just knows his body, okay? English is one of those subjects that sorta escapes him, so the earlier the better, while his mind is still fresh from waking up and he has a chance of hitting it at a dead speed.

He’s not paying much attention as he’s slipping in the door, letting it prop open while whoever is behind him grabs the upper edge to hold it, but then he freezes because there’s someone in his desk.

And, okay. They don’t have assigned seats or anything, not like they did in Elementary school, but he _always_ takes the fourth chair back in the third row over from the door. It gives him the best view of the chalkboard, best view of the entire room, and he can see everything going on. It’s just what he does, it’s _routine_ , only now someone’s in his desk and his fists clench uselessly for a second because that’s just rude.

The guy is big, tall and heavy with muscle big, and Sid’s a fireplug but this guy probably still outweighs him a fair amount so he forces his hands to unclench. It’s not like he was gonna fight him anyway—that wouldn’t make any sense at all—except sometimes his body does things without his brain being fully engaged, and he _hates_ that.

Luckily it’s Jordan behind him. Jordan, who takes one hard look at the room, immediately sees what has Sid’s panties in a knot and taps his shoulder, directing him to move or he will be moved. “Sid, just sit one back.”

He says it so easy, like it’s not a joke to be telling Sidney Crosby to change his routine. It’s only one seat back, putting him behind the new guy with Jordan taking his right like always, but it still feels wrong. He doesn’t like needing to push his way past the new kid, hip hitting his shoulder as he tries to squeeze past the jumble of legs and arms suddenly sprouting out all around him. Seriously, is the new guy an octopus or something?

“Excuse me.” He tries to make his voice authoritative and must mostly fail, the guy just gives him the most completely ridiculous, gap toothed smile in the entire universe and looks at him as though he’s very much lacking, but he likes him anyway.

It’s the most schizophrenic look Sid’s ever seen and he blinks at him once, twice, before giving up and shoving past him to collapse into the chair behind the one where he always sits. His view is blocked now, the sun falls across his seat in a different way. He finds that he has to really focus beyond the norm to learn his requirements, and something _must_ be done about this.

Jordan taps him with his foot and he looks over, sees him shaking his head quietly and determinedly. He realizes his hand has been half raised to tap the student in front of him since he sat down, and he spends the rest of the time with his hands pressed flat to his desk, eyes to the front of the room and focusing around the mop of black hair in his way while Mr. Byrns begins preparing them for the future horror of reading Shakespeare. This semester it’s Hamlet so no, they can’t copy assignments from their friends last semester, and there are a lot of groans and protests from all over the room. Byrns makes no reference to the new kid, like he’s always been there in Sidney’s seat, and he starts to wonder if he might be a little insane because usually teachers all pull that ‘introduce yourself and play nice’ bullshit.

When the bell rings it releases something painful inside his spine and he sighs relief. He can get out, but first he has to say something. He’ll never pass if he doesn’t just fucking _get his seat back_. He can see the long suffering sigh in Jordan’s eyes before he even starts to speak, but he ignores it.

“Excuse me.” This time around he’s not gonna be waved off by the guy’s octopus-like tendencies, and he holds his ground, looking at him as quietly as he can. “Hi, listen. I don’t mean to be a pain in the ass, but that’s where I always sit, and maybe tomorrow you’d be willing to take a seat back? Or even a seat forward, it doesn’t matter. Just. Not that one.”

“Sorry?” he says, his voice textured in ways Sidney knows, and he blinks because he was almost positive that Nikita was the only other Russian exchange student aside from Geno in their school and now all of a sudden there’s this guy.

And he’s still in his desk.

“That’s my desk,” he simplifies after a second.

“Oh, I not see names here.” He glances down at the desk, and then his face breaks into a grin, tapping a piece of graffiti with his strangely large hand, like a puppy who hasn’t achieved their whole growth yet. “Oh, wait! Is here! Your name is ‘Dick’, right? That’s good, I have not met many people yet. They tell me to make friends so I not go home like Nikisha. My name is Alexander, is good if you call me Alex.”

Jordan may or may not be collapsing into muffled giggles behind him like the horrible person he is, and Sidney is frozen, torn between anger and a sort of lingering horror, staring at Alexander with an expression he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to see in a mirror. He’s grinning up at him, gap toothed and sincere, there’s something about that smile that seems weirdly familiar, like he’s seen it before even though he’s sure he’d remember someone with that sort of smile. And Sidney just walks away because he cannot deal with this so early in the morning.

“I say something wrong?” He looks at Jordan with an expression of pseudo puzzlement that has him cracking up again, messy giggles and snorts that he waves off before following Sidney, trying to explain the joke and it’s not like he didn’t _get_ it, he’s not stupid, he just didn’t like it.

||

“And then he asks Sidney if his name is ‘Dick’, all normal like it might really be his name! You should have seen his face; I want that on my phone, you guys.”

Jordan is really having way too much fun with this story, embellishing it up and down until Sidney’s getting sore from all the elbows being jammed into his sides, mostly from Colby. “It was my seat,” he says, glaring when he smacks into him again. “You know what it’s like, I need that seat to focus.”

“I’m pretty sure no one knows what that’s like.” Flower’s grinning at him, shaking his head. “Our _worlds_ don’t collapse if we have different seats.” He looks around himself as if making a point and Sidney sighs. The team always sits at this table, him always between Colby and Geno (unless one of them is sick, in which case it’s him between an empty chair and one of the two) and now the whole team is hearing about their fearless leader’s latest failed attempt at being a person. Not everyone on his team is exactly his friend, but they all love these stories no matter what.

“My world doesn’t _collapse_ ,” he insists, taking another bite of his wrap and chewing slowly. Maybe if he doesn’t respond they’ll find a new thing to focus on.

“It collapses. I saw your face; it was like you just found out your dad ran over your dog after fucking it.”

Oh god, _gross_. He’s grateful for the distraction when Geno pokes him silently in his opposite side, and Sidney reaches over to grab the offered pudding cup, setting it next to his spoon. “Jesus, Staaler. I just like it. I feel safer. I can focus better. I hate my routine messed with, you know that.” His voice is getting higher, dangerously close to cracking like he hasn’t already done the puberty thing a few years ago, and he can see everyone at the table trying to refrain from rolling their eyes.

“Your faces’ll get stuck that way,” he mumbles, controlling his whine at the last second.

“Geno, what do you think about him? You met him yet?”

Geno looks up, obviously confused at the attention suddenly focused on him, and he takes a second to swallow and consider before forming his words carefully. “Not think anything. Never talking yet.”

“Haven’t talked yet,” Sidney corrects absently, like he’s prone to at moments when he realizes he’s the only one who gets what Geno’s saying.

“What he say. Just cause both Russians, we know?”

“You were friends with Nikita,” Max points out mildly, and Sidney can feel Geno tense for just a second, like he has something to defend. Nikita wasn’t the easiest guy to befriend, sure. He’d been withdrawn and reckless and quietly angry, but Geno had been obviously fond of him in a protective way, and he tightens up for a second against Sidney’s side, an undirected spring, before he lets it slide. Max didn’t mean anything by it, it’s clear enough because he’s _Max_.

“Had time to learn him. I never meet Alex,” Geno decides after a reflexive few seconds of thinking and considering. “Motherland not make me know him like Nikisha.”

“It _is_ sorta weird, though,” Neal mumbles into his food, voice soft and unsure. “I mean, that Nikita goes home and then like, a day later there’s another guy? Isn’t that moving fast for a weekend?”

They all pause and look at him for a few seconds.

Flower actually looks a touch worried, or maybe nauseous. “He has a point.”

“Maybe they worried we were under our daily recommended allowance of Russians with only Geno here?”

Geno flings a few French Fries at Tanger, who laughs and swats back at him. “Hey, just saying it’s weird. Like some sort of spy shit.”

“They send spies to infiltrate our prep schools?”

Geno’s rolling his eyes so hard that they might flop out of his skull at any second. “Yes, best way I learn secrets, from high school. You catch me.”

“Speak of the Devil,” Flower mutters absently, and there’s a split second where they all look at him in confusion, though Neal looks upward like he expects to see Nikita rappelling from the roof with government secrets or something. Sidney’s mostly been sitting quietly and listening, letting conversation happen around him, but he lifts his head at that. Then he makes a high pitched and completely undignified squeaking sound because he turns to look at Flower and his face ends up directly in the ass of their newest student as he forces himself between Sidney and Geno on the bench.

Sidney really regrets turning his head. Judging from the look on his face, Flower can tell and finds that fact highly amusing. He bites into his pita harder than usual, turning to glare at the new kid, who’s currently assaulting Geno with a hail of rapid fire Russian that has the other boy blinking and staring like he doesn’t remember how to respond properly.

Sidney is itching inside, he has to look over him to see Geno and that’s just . . .

It’s not routine, is what it is. Maybe Flower is right, maybe he really does need to lighten up on this stupid routine thing that he has. He considers it, and feels vaguely ill.

Also, he doesn’t think he likes him.

“Ey, ey,” Geno mumbles after a few more minutes of excited chatter, his eyes slowly returning to normal size. “Sidney, no say it Alex _Ovechkin_ who new! Play in Russia, one of best players in whole _country_!”

“ _One_ of?” he replies, as though being complimented like that by Geno isn’t quite enough for him.

“Is Great, we call. _Superstar_. Almost good as me.” Geno sounds only halfway facetious, like the guy really deserves that praise.

Apparently Tanger wasn’t being completely dickish in assuming every single person in Russia somehow knows every other person in Russia. And _now_ he knows why he looked familiar, why something about that smile looked like a video clip he’d seen before.

“And you!” His fist collides with Sidney’s shoulder, hard. He winces. “You not Dick, you Sidney Crosby! Coach, he talk about you all the time in Moscow, why you let me think your name Dick?” Ovechkin is staring at him with these strange blue eyes, they don’t mesh with the rest of his face, really, and all Sidney can do is just sorta blink back because he has no idea what in the world is going on.

“I. Uh. I never said my name was . . .”

“Sidney Crosby, this excellent! Coach say you go first in few years. I not know I have best host assignment ever, I come here and find team with Evgeni and Sidney Crosby! You all same team, yes? Maybe I take Nikisha’s place.”

Geno rumbles, either from the unflattering nickname or just because Ovechkin implied such easy acceptance. Sidney just stares. A lot. More than is polite, certainly. His mother would be ashamed.

“Whoa there, you have to try out . . .” he starts, but Jordan and Max are already looking speculative, like maybe they’re really considering that the new kid they’ve never met aside from Geno’s word is somehow gonna come in and take their empty spot. Sidney bites his cheek because, yeah. If what Geno just said is real, if Ovechkin really deserves the praise the other Russian is giving him, he’d be an asset they’d be crazy to pass up. But for some reason the only response he can manage is “You can just call me Sidney, not. Not the whole thing.”

“Sidney,” Ovechkin agrees cheerfully. “Let me meet friends, eh! I already know Evgeni, he Russian so I know him since he was baby.” Which makes no more sense than anything else Ovechkin has said. Geno rolls his eyes a little, expression long suffering, so maybe it’s a weird Russian thing.

Sidney’s introductions are halting, he can’t formulate the right words with Ovechkin staring at him like that, and after he stutters over “Maxime” for the third time Geno takes over, ticking off names with a certainty he almost never shows when speaking English. Ovechkin seems to be keeping up, though he looks a little overwhelmed at the sheer number of Staals at the table, and no one has the heart to tell him there’s another one who’s already graduated and playing college hockey, too.

“And this Marc-Andre Fleury, we call like ‘Flower’ plant, yes? And Tyler Kennedy and Maxime Talbot, the one Sidney stop at.”

To their credit none of the guys look as if they’re about to suddenly start hero worshipping, though Ovechkin is looking at them like maybe he’s waiting for it before he shrugs and starts plowing into his lunch as though he hasn’t seen food since he came here. Though he does spend a lot of time being confused by his bag of milk, it’s almost funny to watch him fumble until Tanger gets it started for him.

It’s the cafeteria’s impression of Sloppy Joes, they’re no more real than the fries are actually potatoes, but Ovechkin — Alex? — Ovechkin bites into it with all signs of enthusiasm, face smearing with the sauce as he chews excitedly. Sidney’s nose wrinkles a little as he chews his veggie wrap slowly and carefully.

If anyone had asked him if he ever thought he was gonna be sharing a table with Alexander Ovechkin he would have snorted quietly and gone back to his lunch.

“It’s okay,” Colby whispers at him, stealing the last bite of his pudding. He’s the only one who can do that. “You’re still our favorite anal retentive phenom.”

He watches Colby finish the last of his food. “I. Thanks. I guess.”

Sidney ends up leaving the table knowing exactly three more things about the new kid than he did: Ovechkin is loud, Ovechkin is his team’s new favorite person, and apparently Ovechkin is looking to play in their league.

||

“Hey, so.” TK’s sitting on the seat to the left of Sidney. He’s not sure what’s so important that it has him moving, he always sits halfway across the room. He looks really intent for some reason.

“Yes?” Sidney says after the moment of polite waiting for him to get to the point passes with nothing happening.

“Dude, what do you think? About Ovechkin,” he clarifies before Sidney can act like he has no idea what he means.

“I don’t think about it a whole lot.” He shrugs, goes back to watching the front of the room and waiting for class to start, except his ear gets flicked. “Shit, that hurts!”

“That’s not an answer, Sidney! Focus on something like you do with hockey for like, three seconds.” Kennedy leans back in his seat, stretches his legs out. “Way Geno is talking, this guy is a first round draft pick, what are the odds that he’d end up here, that he’s an exchange student in the first place?”

“It’s not so weird.” Except for how totally it is. “We’re a good school, we have a good program, and those are probably two things he requested to begin with.” He’s not thinking about Ovechkin — that’s a distraction, and it’s unnecessary. If they’re not on ice it doesn’t matter, it’s not like they’re gonna be friends or study buddies.

“Yeah, but like a day after Nikita —”

“Maybe there’s a wait list he got picked from, I don’t know.”

“But dude, if what Geno says is real . . . we need him on our team. I mean, can you imagine what him and you would do on a line?”

Sidney makes a sound and he’s not dismissive purely out of pride, but there’s certainly a corner of that. He’s back to focusing on the front of the room as soon as the bell rings, and TK stares at him for a few seconds. He can feel it on the side of his face, but he focuses on what their calc teacher is droning on about, taking notes when necessary but mostly just letting the information float over him, following the theories across the whiteboard. When the bell rings he’s out of his chair quick enough that TK can’t catch him, stalking out into the hall and to his locker without another word.

“I don’t have an opinion on Ovechkin,” Sidney says the moment he sees Geno hanging out at his locker.

He blinks at him, nods slowly in a way that looks like appeasement even from a distance. “That okay. No one expects.”

“Apparently _everyone_ expects me to,” he snaps, twisting his lock with violent whips of his wrist.

“Tyler not everyone when I look,” Geno offers in a mild voice, like that defuses everything.

The thing, the real kicker of the whole thing, is that it sorta _does_ defuse almost everything, because Geno has a point. He feels his shoulders unknotting almost immediately.

“Meet me at the rink if you still wanna work on off-book plays,” is all he says after five or six deep breaths. “I can only stay until 7, I have homework and Mom’ll kill me if I’m not home for supper after last week.”

||

When he gets to the rink Geno is already tying his skates, waiting patiently while Sidney changes into his gear. It’s not until he’s lacing his skates that he starts to relax and it’s only once he’s on the ice, stick clenched in his hands, that he feels like himself again, skating warm-ups while Geno does his own, lacing and playing around each other for a few minutes until he drops the puck and they fall into line. It’s all passes and shots and it’d be better with some defense but Geno said he wanted to just skate and pass and so Sidney’s willing to give him that without much complaint.

He’s at the blue line, focused on Geno and the puck, waiting to receive the pass that he can feel coming like a sixth sense. He has his stick out, only the puck never hits his tape because there’s another stick in the way. It’s coasting past him, and he has a second to glimpse a gap toothed smile before Ovechkin is driving the puck in the opposite direction, towards what would be their goal if they were playing a real game. He’s racing forward as fast as his legs can carry him, deep and rumbling laugh floating in his wake like a contrail.

Sidney pivots his skates and pursues, but that split second of not even knowing he was _there_ was enough to allow Ovechkin to take possession, launching an easy slap shot into the empty net. He then proceeds to celebrate like he just scored in double overtime against Roy or something, what the hell it was an empty net. That’s not exactly something to gloat over.

Geno shouts something to him, and Ovechkin shoots back with a little laugh, skating backward like there’s no chance he’ll ever hit a divot.

The urge to trip him wells up but Sidney doesn’t want to be the Bobby Clarke in this situation, he really doesn’t, so he settles for tracking down the puck, fishing it out of the net and skating it down the center. He’s aiming right at Ovechkin like if he doesn’t move he’s gonna just go through him anyway but he dodges at the last second because that’s what he does.

Ovechkin’s on his tail the moment he’s past him, whatever he was chirping Geno about forgotten as Sid glides past him in a neat little evasion, all grace and speed and skill. He’s racing, pumping his legs to keep up as Sidney pots it with a careful flip of his wrist.

“Cannot pull cotton over you, eh?” Ovechkin asks with a little laugh, skating close enough that Sidney can feel him against his back before sliding around him. “We run drills now?” He pauses to lean on his stick, watching as Geno finally risks skating over, and standing slightly behind Sidney’s shoulder like a guardian.

“Geno and I were already running drills. You can do whatever you came here to do.”

“Nah, suicides not much fun. Much more fun to drill. Two on one.” Ovechkin takes off, and okay. Sidney’s not a goalie, it’s not his job to go chasing after every moving object in reach like a kitten but once he’s off he can’t resist chasing him down, trusting Geno to take his wing.

Ovechkin is an utterly different player; Sidney can tell that from the second they start playing against each other in earnest. He rushes the line, presses as far as he can go without technically going out of bounds, he’s not as fast, and he operates almost completely off of his instincts. That’s good, it means he moves before most would anticipate it, nothing to telegraph but it also means the second his instincts are wrong he falters and then Sidney is there.

They chase each other over the ice, and Sidney has the advantage of Geno on his wing but it’s like Ovechkin is reading it as a challenge, an excuse to check Geno into the boards every couple of seconds, try hooking and high sticking and basically every type of sticking he can imagine, including a few that Sidney’s never seen before and has no idea how to defend against.

He’s slowing the tempo, a clear and beautiful shot and then suddenly he’s on his back, Geno standing over him with a worried expression on his face and his head cocked slightly to the side like a curious puppy. “Sidney? You okay?”

“I. Yeah. Okay.” He sits up slowly, taking a deep breath and resting his elbows on his knees. His ribs are aching so hard they feel like they’re on fire. “I’m fine.”

Geno stares, completely unimpressed with Sidney’s skills at lying.

Fine. “I’m winded.”

“Gotta watch, Sidney. Have eyes out. He hit for real.”

Like he hasn’t just watched Ovechkin slam Geno into every available surface as much as he can. “You seem fine,” he points out.

“Russian. I know to take.”

“Like I’m such a delicate Canadian flower,” he grumbles, scrambling to his feet with the help of his stick. “Okay, he’s going down.”

“Not good idea.”

He turns to glare at Geno, feels the ice ripple under his blades a little and has to close his eyes. “It’s a great idea,” he manages once he has breath, once he’s moving over the ice with purpose instead of just randomly drifting wherever momentum takes him.

“He okay?”

Geno turns and shouts something in Russian. It has the tone of something distinctly unflattering and also pissed off, and Ovechkin pauses, makes a face and shouts something back.

“If you two are talking about me, I’d like to know.” Sidney tries to keep his voice light, but his annoyance picks up at the corners.

“I say he break you, why he not allowed have nice things in Russia.”

“And I told him I not break nice things, I only break you. Is not the same.”

Sidney glares at him, braces his stick down and slams into Ovechkin so hard his breath is gone again for a second. He just drives him back, momentum taking the larger man backwards and forcing him to the boards where Sidney does something he’s not proud of, swipes him and takes him down underneath him. He can feel Ovechkin shaking, only that doesn’t seem right because he barely knows the guy and he doesn’t seem like the shaking sort.

It’s only when he has him pinned that he realizes the shaking isn’t shaking at all. It’s _trembling_ , and it’s trembling because he, Ovechkin, is muffling his laughter against his glove.

“Oh, fuck you!” Sidney snaps, swatting at his head, and Ovechkin abandons pretense to laugh loudly and hard.

“You worst fighter ever, Sid!” he chirps, big dopey laughs with no sense of the self conscious about them.

Sidney sits back on his heels, letting him wriggle out from under him, except he just lays there on the ice laughing, like he’s not gonna be freezing his ass off if he keeps it up.

“Thinking, thinking! I see it, you always thinking, not acting!”

“Geno, break his nose. Again,” he decides after a moment.

“That the idea, use people who fight! Use enforce-Uph!” He grunts a little as Geno stick taps him hard enough to hurt, but he’s laughing even through that.

He’s insane, is what Sidney decides as he lets Geno help him to his feet. “You’re insane.”

“Is the endearing sort,” he announces as he scrambles to his feet unaided, shaking himself out. He skates a little semi complex footwork over the ice like he’s showing off. Sidney snorts—he could do that when he was six. “Now, stop thiiiiiinking, Sidney, and skate.”

“What did you think I was doing?” he demands, squeaks when Ovechkin hip checks him and steals the puck, and starts chasing him down again.

By the time it’s seven they’re all near to exhausted, panting lightly and sweating as they strip off their gear and shower. Sidney is loath to admit it, but it seems like Geno was right, that Ovechkin is good, is really probably great if he’s being honest. He’s also still exactly as annoying as he’d previously thought.

“You need a ride?” he asks as he pulls on his jeans, watching Ovechkin change into the most questionable pair of sweat pants he’s ever seen. There’s a zipper on his crotch, what the hell.

He wraps his arms around Geno who sighs the most long suffering sigh Sidney has ever heard him utter before peeling Ovechkin’s arms away so that he can pull on a t-shirt over his wet hair. “No, is good! Zhenya, he offer me ride.”

They had been bantering back and forth in Russian a bit while they showered, but Sidney doesn’t miss the confused look on Geno’s face as Ovechkin announces that. He doesn’t need to speak Russian to know that actually, none of their conversation involved an offer of a ride. Geno recovers admirably though, offering just a terse nod of agreement.

“Oh, okay.” It’s not like he _wanted_ Ovechkin to ride with him, he just knew Geno’s hosts could sometimes get really weird about him getting home at certain times. He was already behind schedule since in the process of dressing Ovechkin wouldn’t stop hanging all over him, and that put a pretty big kink in the process. Geno seemed resigned to it, though, just peeling Ovechkin off if his clinging interfered with anything he needed to do, or ignoring him if it didn’t.

Sidney found himself wondering if it was a weird Russian thing, then decided that it probably wasn’t. Nikita had always been reserved, almost aloof, off on his own and doing his own thing when he wasn’t trailing after Geno like a younger brother. That turns his mind back to Geno, back to his line, and he kicks himself for forgetting to think about it for this long. “Hey, Ovechkin?”

“Ovie,” he corrects.

Sidney pauses, continues like he didn’t hear him. “We’ll probably draw from our roster for Nikita’s spot on the team anyway, but if you want Geno and I can put in a word for you with Coach Patchett, to try out. We’d be glad to have you.”

Ovechkin pauses, makes a big deal about considering it. “Play with Sidney Crosby?” he asks, smiling wide and goofy. “That like dream come true! So, no.”

He might be blinking more than strictly necessary. “Wait. No?”

“No, but is good! Thank you, I find own team. I not need to play with you, much more fun to play against you, no? Testing.” He’s all wrapped over Geno again, glancing at Sidney over his shoulder. A kid hiding behind their parent. Geno’s holding himself tight and still, looking at Sidney with the sort of confusion he can feel inside himself.

There is absolutely nothing about any of that which makes any sense at all, so he just keeps staring. “We’re the best team in the league. You’re insane.”

“You already say that and I not deny,” he replies, loose and easy, bending to get his pack on his shoulders. “My team, we beat you. No worries about that.”

Sidney is staring. He knows that’s not polite. He doesn’t care. “You. _Your_ team? You’ve been over here for two days! And what are you doing at our rink if you don’t wanna play with us, anyway?”

“Three,” he corrects. “Zhenya, he say team practice here. Is close, I like it.”

Sidney can tell that Geno reads his expression even across the room because he also knows that Geno looks sheepish, looks _caught_. “Oh, did he? This is where _our_ team practices, it might be better if you practice where _yours_ does these things.”

Ovechkin shrugs. “Is closer to where I stay. My host family, they not off work till late, rink close enough to school I can practice and not need bus.”

Which, okay. It makes sense, but Sidney is still gonna do something about Geno telling him it even existed, though he’d likely have found it on his own eventually.

Probably. The odds were towards him discovering it at _some_ point, for all that he seems to have the attention span of a mildly concussed goldfish.

Sidney watches him go, turns back to Geno with what he knows is a stupid expression on his face. “What just happened?”

“He say want own team?” he offers easily, like he’s Sidney’s friend instead of the horrible traitor that he is.

His teeth are grinding so hard his head aches. “I know that, Geno. Just. Whatever, go give him a ride to wherever he’s going. And don’t tell him any trade secrets while you’re at it.”

Geno looks wounded, looks like he wants to linger, maybe hear what Sidney is thinking, but not even Sidney is really sure what he’s thinking, confusion and annoyance and everything sorta knotted up in his gut. So he waves Geno off and shoves his gear into his bag, shouldering it and snorting. “Never mind, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

||

That night his mom is chatty, chatty enough that even his dad starts to look a little worried. But he’s not looking worried at her, he’s got his eyes trained towards Sidney. Sidney, who’s got a bruise blossoming over his ribs that stings like hell.

He hunkers down into his dinner and starts shoveling it in as quickly as he can once he’s stripped the skin off the chicken and mostly gotten the butter basil sauce off his vegetables. He wasn’t late, not strictly speaking. He got there before the food hit the table, so he doesn’t have to explain his mood to anyone, except his Mom is really excellent at pushing without looking like she’s pushing. He has to admit defeat after the fifth incarnation of “How was school/practice/your day/ice time/Geno” so halfway through he puts his fork down.

“Nikita went home over the weekend.”

His mother looks heroically unsurprised, but all she says is “I’m sorry to hear that. Why, do you suppose?”

He pauses in pushing the last of the skin off towards the edge of the plate, and he realizes what a horrible person he is because _he doesn’t know_. He has ideas, but he’s never actually asked, and a Captain is supposed to be better than that. He’s let himself be distracted, and that’s not allowable. “I’m not really sure, he wasn’t happy. I guess. He always had a hard time with corrections, I know. And there’s a new student. His name is Alex Ovechkin. He’s. He’s really good.”

That has his dad paying attention, has him turning his head to look at Sidney intently and he ducks his head down because it sounds so stupid, what he’s going to say.

“He’s really good, and I offered to talk to Coach about giving him a tryout for the Seabirds, but. He said he didn’t want to, that he wanted to play somewhere else so he could test himself against me?” It barely makes sense as he says it out loud, he knows he must look confused because the same expression crosses both his parent’s faces as they watch him and consider what he’s saying.

“Is he as good as you, do you think?” His dad is drinking his beer and watching Sidney, and he takes a few seconds to consider.

“Ovechkin plays a different position. He has a different style. But. Yeah, from what I saw.” He makes a non committal sound, goes back to eating his dinner. “It doesn’t matter. It’s the team, not the players. We’d have benefitted with him. We’re not going to suffer without him.”

“That’s my Sidney,” his mom says, all warm and proud and so he bites down the part of himself that wants to say ‘but it would have been really awesome to have him.’ He hates how scared he is of disappointing them sometimes, but they gave up so much so that he could play.

He pushes his plate away with a little face, sighs. “May I be excused?” But he’s already half clearing his place regardless, so they let him go.

“Homework before computer,” his mom tells him as he goes up the stairs, and he pauses for a second. Sometimes he wonders if his parents have like, scripts that they feel need using, and so they use them on him regardless of whether he needs the reminding. He doesn’t say any of that, though. He’s not ungrateful, so he just nods his agreement.

“Sure,” offered like a long fought battle because sometimes he feels like he needs to let her mother him even though he’s gonna be 17 and probably past the age where he needs more than just a nudge in the right direction. Except how basically every guy he knows needs his mom practically on his shoulders to get him to focus on school, so maybe he’s wrong about that after all. But school means hockey, so there it is.

He ends up curled in his desk chair with his books sprawled over his desk and his computer shoved to a far corner, untouched as he chews on his highlighter and carefully skims the upcoming chapters for any concepts he’ll need clarifying in class.

It’s after midnight when he wraps it up, packs his things into his bag and gets ready for bed.

He should sleep. He has a test tomorrow, he has things that he has to go over, but in his head all he can do is keep running the plays against Ovechkin, over and over. The sounds of skates on ice and the triumphant look on his face each time he stole the puck are inside head, so he gives up after close to a half hour, rolling out of bed and dragging his cell phone out of his pocket.

_Did you get Ovechkin home okay?_

He lies back in bed, staring at the ceiling, and the phone vibrates on his chest after a few minutes. _Was okay. Hesstrange._ And trust Geno to have the most massive understatement of the century when dealing with his countryman.

 _We gotta watch out for him_ he types out, then a few seconds later sends _On the ice, I mean_. Ovechkin seems like he’ll take care of himself just fine otherwise. Then, because he has to ask, wants to know, _why did Nikita leave?_

Geno doesn’t respond to that, so after another half hour Sidney turns his phone off, tosses it onto his nightstand and tries to sleep. For that to work he has to ignore the way his brain is analyzing every second of ice time with Ovechkin like it can alter the past if it just reminds him that he’s not good at responding to changes in tempo. It’s a handy observation for the future, not for what already happened, so he rolls over and sleeps even though they follow him into his dreams, a restless and unsettled sleep that feels even less restful than the short hours account for.


	2. Chapter 2

Ovechkin is in his desk again when he gets into class the next morning, and his knuckles creak a little bit under the force of gripping his books. But he resigns himself to learning absolutely nothing in English again when he takes the seat behind Ovechkin, pushing up the aisle with his face lowered.

“Sidney Not-Dick!” He’s like a freaking jack in the box, seriously. He almost takes out Jordan’s knees with the corner of his desk as he shoots to his feet; Jordan evades at the last second with a grunt. If Sidney were more paranoid he might wonder about deliberate sabotage, and now that the thought is there damn if it’s not going away.

“What do you want?” He doesn’t mean to sound as exasperated as it comes out.

“Your seat, I save it for you! Make sure no one take it like dumb Russian student did yesterday.” He winks, which is possibly the creepiest expression ever in the circumstances. “Here, you sit.”

“That’s not really necessary . . .” Everyone’s staring at them, there are a few smirks on the faces of some of the guys in the back of the room and this level of attention is making him paranoid. He’s not good with eyes on him, not by a long stretch.

“No, Zhenya. He tell me in car how important roooooutine is for Sidney Crosby. Here, take seat. I insist.”

What the hell is it with Russians and those ridiculous nicknames?

Sidney’s distracted thinking about it, so he collapses into the chair when Ovechkin’s hands land on his shoulders and all but force him down. He’s really sort of scary strong, and Sidney sinks into the chair without another word, watching Ovechkin sit on his right with a crooked little smile.

“Hey, Crosby!” It’s one of the guys from the back, tall and big with muscle, and Sidney lowers his head with a sigh because seriously, this is too much this early and it’s Ovechkin’s fault.

Unfortunately they’re jocks and don’t let something like this go easy because even if it’s hard to get shit through their heads, once it does get there it’s permanent. Like a tattoo.

“You like getting pushed around by Russians, Cindy?”

Previous to Ovechkin screaming out his name in the middle of the classroom he was pretty sure none of those guys knew who he was, knew him as anyone other than another kid in the class. Even with that disadvantage their taunts are still weak, still grasping at straws to piss him off. He sighs, sets his books out on the desk and makes up his mind to blow them off.

Except for how Ovechkin has a mouth roughly the size of Siberia.

“Is hard not to be jealous, I know!” His face is bright, gap toothed grin wide and excited, and holy crap it’s Nikita. Sidney can already see the unfolding classroom brawls and weeks upon solid weeks of detention all over again. “Russians, we a special breed, y’know? Is important we not let people push us around, yes? We push first, so when they push later is even!”

He can feel the fight coming on, the way his hair rises and his skin starts to itch, in the way Jordy tenses up next to him like he’s ready to take a hit so Sidney doesn’t have to. But apparently all those things are wrong, because all he hears is laughter, laughter at his expense but _laughter_ that’s not leading to a fight, which is sorta a novel circumstance for him. Ovechkin is grinning, all wide and sincere like he doesn’t have a care in the world, like he didn’t just say exactly what he did, and the guys are laughing because they don’t quite get what just happened. His pride is wilting faster than spinach inside an olive oil sauce, he’s turning red which is doing nothing to resolve any situation at all, and he’s gonna get his ass kicked within five minutes of the bell, he can already tell.

How that worked out for Ovechkin he will never, ever understand. It seems unreasonable, unfair, if he’d tried diffusing that situation he’d be looking for his books in the trash can behind the school cafeteria while reeking of toilet water. The bell is the only thing that keeps him from full blown anxiety, Mr. Byrns slouching in half asleep and nursing a coffee. Ovechkin spends the rest of class kicking him, so he still doesn’t learn anything.

“Hey, so.” Ovechkin slings an arm over him as he gathers his books up, and Sidney can see the guys staring at them from the corner of his eye. So it’s not paranoid, it’s just smart that he shrugs Ovechkin off. “Sidney, be nice, I make those boys like you!”

“They don’t like me. They don’t like you. You were momentarily entertaining to them.”

Ovechkin looks hurt, looks wounded even, and Sidney rolls his eyes, goes back to jamming his books into his pack as quick as he can, but then Ovechkin’s hands are all over him again. “Hey, but wait! You like me, so is all good, right?”

He narrowly avoids being touched, ducking out of the way and finishing his packing while Jordan looks on with a little smirk on his face. He somehow finds the whole thing — from the near scuffle to Ovechkin’s obvious inclination for touching Sidney everywhere that’s legal — amusing, the jerk.

“I don’t hate you,” he concedes after a few seconds when it becomes clear that Ovechkin is actually waiting for him to respond. “Now get out of my way, my next class is all the way across the school.”

“Oh, good! We walk together!”

“No, we do not . . .” Ovechkin’s arm is around his shoulders, steering him out, and he’s crawling out of his skin trying to get away from the contact while shooting looks at Jordy, who’s still just grinning at him like a maniac. “Okay, fine, whatever.”

They’re in the hall before Sidney is able to duck his touch, shaking him off his shoulder and stalking away as quickly as he can.

This would be more effective if Ovechkin wasn’t taller than him, and therefore capable of taking longer steps. He somehow ends up setting the pace, chattering about God knows what. While Sidney ducks into doorways and steps around groups of people Ovechkin just plows his way along, letting the stream of students adjust themselves to him, so it’s Sidney trying to keep up instead of him leaving Ovechkin in the dust like he’d planned.

By the time he makes it to his French class he basically hates Ovechkin and all he stands for, so it’s good that he isn’t expected to say anything to him. It’s not like he wanted the company on the walk over, so he’s under no obligation to tell him goodbye. He just shoves himself in the door, squeezing between two girls and disappearing like it doesn’t matter one way or another.

Except that now Ovechkin knows where his class is and apparently has reached the conclusion that hanging out waiting for him is a brilliant plan.

“Why are you here?” He means to sound more annoyed — all he manages is whiney, and he bites his lip to avoid saying anything more.

Ovechkin straightens from leaning against the lockers near the door, shrugging. “Class is easy. I leave early. Come, where next class?”

Sidney growls, takes off for his locker and Ovechkin is right there the whole time, still talking while he scans the hallway. He realizes what he’s doing when they’re halfway there.

“I don’t need a bodyguard,” he says, his voice sounding rough and a little bit constipated. He takes a deep breath and tries it again. “I really don’t.”

“Those guys, they give you problems, probably cause of me. At least a little. Not so much, if I here. Problem, is solved!” Ovechkin throws his arms wide and nearly smacks a passing kid who ducks under him at the last minute and curses at him while he keeps walking and chatting, oblivious to his effect on the general populace. Like a hairy Godzilla. Maybe King Kong.

“They don’t give me _problems_. . .”

“Zhenya, he tell me.” His voice has reached like, scary levels of rumbling, rough and menacing and aggressive in those four words and Sidney winces.

“That was once, at the beginning of the year! And I got some good hits in before they . . .”

“He’s lying,” Flower chimes in, and there’s Max, finishing for him with “Sidney is the worst fighter in the world.”

He glares at them, his eyes narrowed so that he can barely see, but hopefully he’s expressing his level of rage appropriately. “My whole team has turned into traitors. And I’m not the worst, that guy from the Freeze is way worse.”

“He’s about four feet tall.”

“And he still cleaned your clock.” Flower is a supremely unhelpful human being.

“Still.”

“He crosschecked Geno; Sid had to defend his honor . . .”

“Only Sid can’t fight,” Max finishes for Fleury.

“Sid?” Ovechkin looks entirely too excited to be given the opportunity.

“Don’t try it, only my team gets to call me that. You are horrible people, by the way.”

Flower and Maxie just grin at him, fully pleased with themselves.

“Okay, I made it to my locker. You can stop hovering.” He spins his lock with more force than strictly necessary, twisting it open and tugging his door, practically hitting Ovechkin in the face when it flies open. He ducks away with a yelp and Sidney smiles, once, tight and sharp. It’s his fault for crowding him.

“Sidney, please. Nose is broken enough. Also, I not hovering,” he insists, insulted.

Sidney rolls his eyes, begins sorting his color coded binders into the proper places in his locker, setting them aside in the right order. “ _Body guarding_ , or whatever.”

Ovechkin nods much more agreeably, smiling a bit. “Is much more manly. But I stay.”

“ _Seriously_? I’m not gonna get jumped, Talbot and Flower are _right here_ ,” he whines, resting his head on his forearm.

“We have History together,” and he is gonna kill whichever one of them offered that info to his new pseudo stalker.

“Do you two _ever_ go anywhere without each other? You’re worse than the Staals.”

“He complains,” Ovechkin faux-whispers to Talbot, who nods with more enthusiasm than strictly necessary.

“I do _not_ . . .”

“You should see him when he thinks he hasn’t played good enough,” Max agrees, grinning with all those ridiculous teeth. “It can go on for _days_. The whining . . .”

“. . . and the no longer optional skates,” Flower finishes, elbowing Max with a wide grin.

Ovechkin looks entirely too pleased with receiving that information, all missing teeth like an improperly carved Hallowe’en pumpkin, and Sidney sighs because he already knows he will never live this down. He shoves the last of his books into his backpack, straightens up and slings it over his shoulder. “Okay, you’ve had your fun. Maxie, Flower, stop trading secrets with the enemy.”

They look confused, and Ovechkin grins again, even wider. “I play with Monuments now.”

Even Sidney is surprised with that nugget, especially after last night. “How is that even possible, you’ve been here _four days_. You didn’t have a team yesterday!”

He shrugs, keeps smiling. “I popular guy.”

“You keep smiling, your face’ll stick like that,” Sidney grumps, trying to duck around a group of girls who have taken up residence in the exact center of the hall while they exchange lip gloss and critique each other’s hair or whatever it is girls in groups do. Sidney’s never been allowed to be around them long enough to know.

“Is okay. Is good look for me.” He pauses, turns back towards the group of girls in the hall and they titter at him, high pitched sounds of amusement.

“Did he just _wink_ at those girls?” Sidney knows his voice sounds torn between disgust and disbelief — he doesn’t try to hide it.

“And they looked happy about it,” Max agrees cheerfully.

“Face it, Sid, some guys got it.”

Sidney just flings open the door to history a little harder than necessary, Flower catching it right before it slams into the wall. “Some of us don’t _need_ it, thank you,” he replies under his breath, so soft he’s not sure if they hear him or not.

His best friends are going to be the death of him.

||

He shouldn’t be surprised when he opens the door, he really shouldn’t be. “Oh my _God_ , no.”

Ovechkin is right there, grinning wide and easy, arms crossed over his chest and just fucking _smiling_ like this is the best joke in the world, irritating the crap out of Sidney disguised as friendly concern. “We go to lunch together? Have at same period, is what friends do.”

“We are _not_ friends.” He says it very slowly, like explaining to a child.

“Only cause you strange and weird. I very good friend, ask Zhenya.”

“He’s known you for _two days_ , there’s no way he’d know!” Sidney has to take a series of deep breaths, closing his eyes just to get that stupid smile out of his vision.

It doesn’t work. It stays illuminated behind his eyelids, an afterimage. It’s still there when he opens them.

“Maybe should give me a chance, yes? Zhenya, he gives me chance. Is just that I play with Monuments . . .”

“It’s not that you play with the Monuments, you just joined them sometime between seven last night and this second!” This time Ovechkin keeps himself safely back from the frantic energy with which Sidney throws open his locker. “Although, really. Should you be spending this much time following a guy from your rival team?”

“Rival?” He shrugs, wide and expansive and unconcerned. “Is not rival, here. On ice, yes. Big rival, I not gonna back down from running you down. But here, just weird kid from English class. Needs help from bullies.”

“I don’t need _help, Christ_. I didn’t _have_ bullies before you opened your mouth.” His lunch bag is making little crunching sounds in his hand, and he might be smooshing his turkey sandwich and he doesn’t care. At least Ovechkin isn’t carrying a lunch. He’ll have to stop being his shadow while he goes to buy his food.

Except for how he follows Sidney to his table, sits next to him and just. Just sits and waits while the table fills up bit by bit, always beside Sidney, even if they’re not talking. He starts a conversation with Flower about some weird TV show with vampires and guys with a cool car that they both watch, joking with TK and Nealer. Sidney sighs, resting his face in his palm. Apparently his whole team has somehow been taken in by Ovechkin’s weird, persistent brand of Russian kindness.

He’s feeling itchy, he doesn’t even realize what it is until Geno appears, mumbles something in Russian to Ovechkin who scoots over, never breaking his stream of conversation, to allow him to take his seat next to Sidney. He sits down, sliding the extra tray he brought into place in front of Ovechkin. His teammates are feeding him now, that’s so beyond completely unfair that he can’t even stand it. Now he’ll never go away.

Sidney eats his lunch mostly in silence, methodically, and lets the conversations circle and wash over him as he chews. Ovechkin, on the other hand, is right in the middle of all of it, tossing opinions and ideas around in Russian and English as though he’s got an unlimited supply that he feels needs to be shared. He’s mostly trash talking other teams, even throwing elbows at the Seabirds as though he knows what he’s talking about. Sidney listens to about half of it, and not necessarily the half that’s in English, watches the way Ovechkin and Geno argue back and forth in Russian like a couple of siblings. He’d never seen Geno open quite that much with Nikita, and he has to admit he looks happy.

He owes Geno some debt of gratitude, too. He takes over his body guarding for the rest of the day, and he doesn’t have to see Ovechkin again. He’s not even at the rink when he drives up. He was worried he’d find him in the dressing room, but the rink is blissfully free of overly enthusiastic Russians.

He practices by himself, and the more he skates the more he starts imagining Ovechkin on the ice opposite him, trying to predict his responses to each of his moves, how best to avoid any future puck stealing incidents. He can almost see the big Russian across the ice from him as he flies his way down the center, anticipates hits that don’t come and dodges invisible encroachments with slick, liquid grace. It’s a pointless exercise by and large — he doesn’t know Ovechkin well enough, hasn’t seen enough tape of him to do anything but imagine. But he feels like he’s doing something, accomplishing something, so he lets himself do it.

It’s a relief to be doing something, just moving and feeling his legs pumping, and no one is asking him about Ovechkin at all.

It feels _glorious_.

His legs are weak and shaky when he gets home, trembling with fatigue, and his mother sends him to his room right after supper to rest, making his sister promise not to bother him.

Sidney does his homework in silence. At some point he wanders onto Facebook to find a question from TK about the last problem on their calculus assignment. He IMs with him for awhile, leading him through the process while double checking himself.

_Okay, does it make sense?_ he sends, looking back over his paper and waiting for a response. When he raises his eyes to the window there’s a new message alert blinking. He arches one eyebrow, idly clicks it open while waiting on TK.

_Hamlet remind me of u. Whines_

Hell, oh _Hell_ no. He checks the user name and sure enough.

_How did you get my username?_ He may be smacking the keys harder than necessary.

He watches the words pop onto his screen and grinds his teeth so hard his jaw radiates pain into his temples. _ur teMates. Very helpful_

His teammates are _dead_. _I don’t have time to chat, I’m finishing homework._

The screen goes silent, like standby, and he breathes a sigh of relief that he’s finally rid of him thank God, but right as he’s responding to another question from Tyler that tab reopens and starts blinking.

_u understand act one?_

Sidney stares at the screen, sighs. _yes._ Then, because he’s strictly honest, _I think._

_is reason 4 ghost literary, or is reel?_

He sighs, and in between letting TK lament at him about his latest dating failures he tries to walk Ovechkin through the concept of conscience and metaphorical representations and a bunch of other really complex words that he’s not sure if he gets or not. It’s weirdly nice, actually, just treating him like one of his teammates, working with him like he needs coaching, only it’s Shakespeare instead of slap shots. And it’s okay, because apparently when they’re in the same class they’re not rivals for that moment, or whatever Ovechkin’s weird logic was.

Sidney spends the rest of the night on YouTube in between helping Ovechkin, tracking down every grainy home video that he can find of him playing back in Russia. There are a lot of them, surprisingly. And not all of them are of the ‘overly enthusiastic mother’ variety, either. There’s stuff from what looks like actual local newscasts, or whatever the Russian equivalent to that is. There’s almost two pages of links, which is kinda a lot, so he starts at one and settles down to watch and dissect, arms crossed over his chest as he leans back. He’s surprised to see Nikita in a few of them, but mostly he just can’t let his eyes shift away from Ovechkin, not for a second.

They’re completely different players, he could see that back when they’d practiced and he can see it now even clearer, but he can’t help but watch and analyze, seeing everything Ovechkin does when he’s on the ice. The shots that look so wicked they can’t possibly be real, the ridiculous little dances he does when he scores. He’s a showboat but he’s powerful, like a flashy tank, he’s got a sort of charisma on the ice that he keeps watching.

It’s all just research, know the enemy and all that shit, he tells himself each time he kicks to a new link, and that helps to momentarily quiet the sort of guilt building up in his stomach that he’s paying this much attention to another player instead of focusing on his own game.

||

Sidney walks into class the next day and Ovechkin grins at him, moving out of his seat with an elaborate bow.

“Making _sure_ I get beat up?” he hisses at him, shoving past him to sit down. Someday he will learn to not go from zero to pissed each time Ovechkin shows up, but apparently today is not that day.

“Is good!” Ovechkin takes the seat in front of him, turns around in it so he can stare over his crossed arms. “Others, they see I give to you. You are big alpha, get seat back and everything. Is good plan.”

“That is a _terrible_ plan.”

“Semantics.” He waves him off, and Sidney stares for a few seconds before digging his books out of his bag, dropping them onto his desk with a bang.

“Thank you for help last night.”

He sounds so serious that Sidney pauses, sets his pen a bit more carefully on his desk. “Um. No problem. I hope it helped.”

“It did. Thank you.”

He blinks at him a little bit, then offers a small, cautious little smile. “You’re welcome.”

“Playing nice at last?” Jordy demands, taking his seat, and Ovechkin turns to joke with him. Sidney stays mostly quiet and watches them while he waits for class to start, but something weird inside his chest is a little bit looser by the time class finally begins.

||

For some reason that Sidney can’t fully comprehend Ovechkin goes through a massive personality shift through the last part of the week. He goes from all but stalking Sidney to acting as though he’s only vaguely aware of his existence. He doesn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth or anything, but after the first few days he was starting to suspect Ovechkin had made him his project. What type of project he doesn’t know, but some type. When it suddenly ends entirely after a few days it’s a little disorienting: it feels as though he’s suddenly lost his shadow, like he’s Peter Pan or something.

And. It’s not like Sidney _cares_ , because he doesn’t. It doesn’t matter that Ovechkin isn’t stalking him anymore. He’s _glad_ Ovechkin isn’t stalking him anymore. But he sorta can’t help but notice it. It’s out of the routine.

Ovechkin’s friendly in class, but he seems to turn more inwards. He’s still gregarious and overbearing and it’s hardly enough to be considered becoming serious, except for how, on someone like him, it looks more severe. There are actual gaps in the conversation at the lunch table, moments when he’s not trash talking the Seabirds or whatever team suits his fancy, and those moments feel really strange. Sometimes Sidney finds himself watching him, waiting for a joke or a boast that never comes.

He knows from the league wide schedule that the Monuments have a game on Friday evening, but that’s as far as he’s gone trying to memorize opposing team schedules unless they directly interfere with his own. He’d actually really like to go see the game, see what Ovechkin’s like on the ice in person and for real, but they’re set to play the Bullies on Saturday, which means double practice after school to get ready. They’re always a tough team to face off with this late in the season when everyone’s honed, and he doesn’t want to take chances on sloppy or slow.

“Shit, what happened to you?”

Sidney looks down at himself, the bruising from Ovechkin’s hit on Monday already fading out to a mottled green and gold stretched out across the pale skin of his side. It was stupid, letting himself get hit that hard when they were just messing around.

“Ovechkin,” he says simply, figures that’s that until there’s a low whistle from Talbot as he and Flower scream “WAY TO GO, SID,” in nearly the same voice.

“Always thought you’d like to take it rough!” Max adds, too loud and too gleeful.

If the whole room wasn’t staring at him before, they are now. He can feel himself turning red and he jerks his under armor over his head as fast as he can, breath hitching when he grazes the bruise with his knuckles in the rush to get it all the way down.

“Fuck you,” he sighs, voice catching a little on the pain of it. “He checked me on the ice, it was so stupid to let myself get banged up and it wasn’t even practice.”

They’re still staring. “Tell them, Geno.”

“What more right, Max? Sex bruise, or Sidney not take Russian hits good?”

That helps precisely not at all. Sidney rolls his eyes as he finishes his dressing to a complete chorus of catcalls and jibes. Seriously, _fuck_ his teammates.

At least it tapers off once they hit the ice. Coach calls them over immediately, sits them all down on the bench and explains the gap in their lineup. Everyone’s eyes shift to Geno, everyone but Sidney, who’s staring at his skates as he listens to Coach Patchett explain about how homesickness hits everyone differently, how none of them are to judge Nikita for going back to Moscow early. It’s not like they couldn’t see how miserable he’d become, and when Patch promotes Duchene to Geno’s wing for practice there are as many people expressing sympathy for Nikita to him as there are people congratulating Dutchy.

Once that’s settled it goes back to business — Coach is skating all of them a million different directions all at once, pushing and pushing until they’re all weak and shaky, Max is considering an outright rebellion, and even Geno’s got his hands on his knees between drills, gasping out soft breaths. Dan Bylsma is there too, sitting off to the side of the box and keeping an eye on the younger players like he always does when he has time off from his courses. He’s been one of Sidney’s acquaintances for years, he’s been a mentor since Sidney was a kid and Dan was wearing the C for the Seabirds. It’s nice to see him around, observing. He trusts Coach to make the right decisions for the team. Dan does the right things for players.

He’s busy chirping Geno, trying to force him to focus on something besides the new lines. Sidney’s sliding quietly between everyone, offering a few words here and there and ducking when he’s swatted at for being ‘too fucking into this’ when Patch calls him over with a terse “Crosby!”

He comes to a stop in front of Coach, skates kicking up a little snow before he settles back on his heels. He watches how Bylsma makes his way over. “Yes?”

“I heard you’ve been busy making friends with the Monument’s new star right winger. Truth?”

Sidney can’t stop the expression that settles on his face. Somehow, he’d thought he’d be able to avoid this at practice, at least for a while. Dan laughs at him. “False. He’s in my English class, that’s as far as it goes.” And it’s true, for the given value of ‘true’. He’s never _tried_ to make anything of Ovechkin, it’s just that the universe doesn’t seem to be willing to accommodate his desire to make _nothing_ of the other boy.

Patch watches him, then nods. “I assume you boys tried to recruit him for our side? We could have made use of another wing.”

It’s not like he hasn’t _tried_. It’s not his fault that Ovechkin is insane, but somehow that explanation feels more like an excuse. He settles for sighing, heavy, but steeling his voice because he doesn’t whine at his coach. “It’s complicated. He wanted to do his own thing, is what he told me.” It’s the most abbreviated version he’s told since his dad asked, but Bylsma seems to get it immediately because he’s been there before, or someplace like it.

“Don’t let yourself get distracted,” is all he says, and Sidney nods his agreement with a tight little smile. He knows it’s a coach thing, an adult thing, but sometimes he has to bite his tongue just to keep from reminding them he’s _not_ distracted, he’s paying attention like hockey is deadly serious, because they _told_ him it should be. But he doesn’t say it because hockey is positively about not making a wave and besides. Sidney’s never seen much of an appeal in rivalries.

The rest of practice is . . . not good. Geno’s skating off: Coach is trying out Duchene on his wing and it seems like Geno is double taking every time he tries to pass, like he’s seeing something he isn’t expecting every time he looks over. It’s an unnecessary delay that has Max stealing the puck more often than not, has Geno kicking himself and looking sheepish, contrite.

Sidney wants to say something, wants to point out the inherent ridiculousness of not being adaptable to someone as good as Dutchy playing his wing, but he keeps his mouth shut because he’s pretty sure it’s the fact it’s _not Nikita_ and less the whole difference in skills thing. He knows people give him crap for not understanding the most basic of human emotions, but he does. He gets it. Sometimes he’s even able to keep his mouth shut for a whole practice even though all he wants to do is skate over there and tell Geno to focus, please, and maybe bump their helmets together.

So he sits on the bench when he’s not drilling, and he watches the way everything’s going down and he catalogues it so that they’ll have something to talk about next time, behaviors to review. He knows Patchett is doing the same thing a few seats down, but it’s a nice way to give himself something to do, besides just sitting on the bench and watching what’s going on out there with a mixture of confusion and horror.

“Crosby, out there! I want Malkin on your wing, see if we can shake this.”

He jumps at the sound of his name, onto his feet and over the boards to join the line on the ice. They do some shifting, send Duchene back to the bench for the time being, and Sidney hunkers down into the center.

“Sid. Sidney. Aey.”

He looks over, his irritation showing on his face as Geno gazes at him ruefully.

“Sorry,” he says, so soft that Sidney can barely hear it, but it’s enough.

After a second he slides the puck over to him, slow and easy. Nothing fancy, but Geno handles it better than he has all week, and it’s sorta like acceptance, like starting over fresh and clean.

||

His dad is the one who hands him the paper when he comes downstairs for breakfast. His mom is making some egg whites and vegetables in a scramble for him, and Taylor’s sitting on the living room carpet watching some cartoon. And it’s so quiet, only the over exaggerated voices of the characters on the TV and the perk of the coffee machine.

It feels like someone _died_ , so he takes the newspaper from his dad expecting another setback, a punch to the gut like Nikita — with _feeling_.

Their town loves hockey. Worships it. And right there on the front page, where Sidney is getting distressingly used to seeing his own face, is a wide spread of Friday’s game.

Only he didn’t play last night, and it’s Ovechkin grinning at him from the front page. He’s in flight, knees tucked to his hips as he leaps straight up, one arm flung around Bradley and the other outstretched to pull Perreault to himself. His teammates are clinging to him like he’s air, like he’s a _Messiah_ , and Ovechkin’s face is lit up from within, the A on his chest in sharp prominence. It’s as though he scored his first goal, his _best_ goal, and it’s right there on his face for all to see. Sidney always looks somber, intense. Ovechkin looks like bliss.

_The Gr8_ is what the headline says, and Sidney reads the article as he sits down, start to finish.

It’s nearly an ode, Kizler waxing rhapsodic about the Russian Machine that has hit their town. Shots that defy physics, some of the prettiest goals he’s ever seen, a physicality bordering on defenseman aggression. It’s all there, all the things Sidney saw on those tapes and directed at him, only they’re talking like instinct and talent are enough to save you when Sidney knows, _knows_ , that it’s skill. And skill is something you learn.

Sidney reads and his fists clench and unclench to a steady rhythm on the table.

“Sidney?” his mom asks, bringing him a plate. He ignores her, reading it again. Only this time he focuses on the play descriptions, ignoring the information on personality to narrow in on play. Ovechkin scored two of the four goals last night, an assist on another, and that’s what he needs to know about. Not pretty shots or exuberant celebrations, but the actual play. It’s buried in there, between the excited reviews and praise for the impression he’s made on the community, but it’s there.

He’s halfway through his third reading when Colby calls, and he lets it go to voicemail. After that it’s Jordy, Neal, Geno and Duchene in no particular order, texts and calls and he ignores all of them while he finishes and then eats.

They’re all roughly the same call in different words, checking if he’s seen the paper. Jordy and Nealer sound impressed, Colby sounds pissed, and Geno sounds like not much at all.

He ends up calling Colby first, by right of first come but also because he’s the one he needs to talk to the most out of all the guys. Colby sounds angry in his message and that’s the best antidote to the vague unease filtering up inside his own chest.

“They didn’t mention me,” he reminds him calmly, trying to soothe the slight Colby seems intent on taking. “They didn’t need to. I didn’t play, Ovechkin played.”

“Sid, they’re all but set to fucking _crown_ Ovechkin, like he’s the best thing we’ve seen, like he’s already got you beat . . .”

“Let them,” he snaps, interrupting. “I’m not here to make a rivalry, I never was.”

“But if they want to . . .”

“They can. I don’t have to go along with it, I never went out and played ‘The Next One’.”

Colby’s voice falls low and soft. “You didn’t have to.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “It’s not Ovechkin’s fault, either.”

“You didn’t see that photo, did you?”

“Of course I did. He was disgustingly enthusiastic. He’s a showboat who loves everyone to know exactly what he’s done when he’s done it, but that’s no challenge to _me_ specifically. Neither one of us have singled each other out, the paper can make of that what they want. They don’t make reality.”

Colby sounds annoyed, sounds frustrated. “They kinda do.”

“It’s nothing. I just want to have a good game today, that’s all I want. That’s all I’m _trying_.”

“They’re gonna be putting you on the front page tomorrow, and we’ll see what Ovechkin does with that,” Colby sighs, resigned.

“That,” Sidney grits, his face serious, “is entirely his business, not mine.”


	3. Chapter 3

Saturday’s evening game is rough and tumble, the Bulldogs have always been a scrappy team with some sort of chip for the Seabirds, and Sidney’s got his hands too full trying to keep Richards away from the puck to think about camera flashes or articles or anything else. It’s good, though, he needs to focus on the game and not anything else. Normally that’s as easy as breathing, so he’s actually more annoyed than anything when it doesn’t work out like it should, when he finds himself zoning out on the bench instead of observing and analyzing. It’s a pain in the ass, but it’s not a problem, not yet.

It becomes a problem late in the first when Giroux steals the puck, he has to chase the kid down and Sidney’s kicking himself every little bit of the way when he takes a shot and Flower just barely saves. He doesn’t blame Flower at all when he rebounds to Nealer, he’s about ready to bench _himself_ until his head is on straight. It’s small distraction, but it’s more than he’s ever allowed himself during a game. He doesn’t need his parents, Coach or Dan chiding him. He’s doing well enough inside his own head. He’s a teen, that’s no excuse to be _stupid_ , though.

First intermission is agony, and when Coach pulls him aside all he can do is hang his head, listen while he’s reminded what his job is supposed to be and kicking himself because _he doesn’t need reminding_ , except apparently that he does.

“It’s Alex Ovechkin.” It’s not a question, because Dan doesn’t need it to be.

“We’re not rivals,” he says softly, and Bylsma nods his head.

“No, you’re not,” he agrees. “Because if you were playing like this against him he’d be Zamboni-ing the ice with you.”

His head snaps up and he stares, watching Bylsma watch him. “Dan . . .”

“And you know it.”

He does. He really does, and he looks away as he nods slowly. He has every reason to be ashamed, he’s in the same trap he warned Colby against, and he should be _better_ than that.

It takes until the second period, when Coach puts Geno on his line to try and shake whatever he’s got going on. It’s risky, putting the two of them together like that when they’re both playing slightly wonky, but like sometimes happens in hockey and life, two wrongs turn into a right and they _click_. Sidney has a gorgeous shot on goal about halfway into the second and it’s in like perfection, first goal of the night and it’s from their line. Sidney bumps their helmets together while they get piled by the rest of the team, an assist on his scoreboard.

After that it’s something fast and furious — Sidney ups the pace, Geno and Nealer keep up and it looks gloriously, effortlessly wonderful. It’s great, not nearly enough that Sidney’s not making notes in his head, but enough that he’s relaxing between outs, letting his shoulders unknot as he watches the Bullies scramble and struggle to adapt themselves to the pace that’s been set for them. Sidney leads the race and the rest of the team follows, matches and improves and it’s good, close to perfect.

They take it to 2-0 on a sweet power play goal by Max’s line in the third and after that it’s just keeping their heads down and refusing to let the Bullies catch their breath, or catch a break.

The Bullies are pissed, frustrated. He can see the rigid annoyance crackling under the surface when Geno gets checked hard into the boards by Walker, but he lets that just roll off once Geno’s on his skates without so much as a grunt. They can be annoyed, they can play dirty, doesn’t matter when they’re down with five left. It’s not his job to judge their moods, not unless it’s gonna make them do something stupid that he can take advantage of. He gets another goal in the final minutes; it’s hard fought and dirty but he chips it in with a snarl and it’s good.

He’s on the ice when the time runs down, horn calling an end to play. The handshake line is a rushed affair, it’s like there are opposing magnets in their uniforms, repelling them, which they have to fight past just to give the semblance of civility.

The locker room is electric, it’s as though nothing’s missing and everything in there is perfect and effortless and real. Guys are chasing each other, snapping each other with towels and shit talking, energy high and crackling.

“Hey. Sid. Sidney.” Cooke’s elbow is pointy in his side, digging into his ribs and he has to respond unless he wants to suffer a long lasting injury.

Seriously, the guy’s elbow should probably qualify for some sort of weapons law, it’s insane.

“Sid, really.” He has to turn and look at him and Matt’s grinning, all teeth and dancing eyes. “We got Geno back.”

He looks over at Geno, realizes that for the first period he wasn’t the only one who was missing. “Yeah, we totally did,” he agrees, feeling something lift off his shoulders for a second.

“And that deserves a party.”

Aaaaand just like that the weight is back. He groans, dropping his face into his palm. “I have homework.”

“It’s _Saturday_.”

He glares. “People have homework on Saturdays.”

“No, they don’t.” Matt pokes him again, right in the same tender space on his ribs.

“Ow.” This seems to have no effect on Cooke, so finally he just shrugs, acquiesces and gives in because he has nothing better to do, not really. Agreeing doesn’t mean he’ll actually do it. He tries to sound cheerful. “Right, okay. Party, your place. Sounds great.”

“Not mine,” he corrects. “Ovie’s.”

He kinda wants to kill everything with fire. “Okay, yeah. No. _No_.”

“C’mon, Sid! He saved his own victory party so he could share with us!” Apparently agreeing and then backing out doesn’t spare him the elbow. Maybe it’s the backing out part that doesn’t look so good. “Seriously, you’d think you really did have a thing against Ovie or something, way you treat him like the plague.”

“I do not,” he protests, and he _doesn’t_. He’s confused and usually vaguely annoyed when around him, but that’s sorta his default state when dealing with _any_ human interaction.

“Geno’ll drive you, he’s the only one who knows where Ovie’s host family is. It’ll be fun, really. I swear. Don’t try to escape.” And then Cooke throws an arm over him, doesn’t let up until Sidney’s being all but forced into the back seat of Geno’s car, his bag tossed onto his lap. If he locked the door and then slapped the roof to signal Geno to speed off he wouldn’t be surprised.

“Hey,” Geno says, looking in the rearview mirror. “Matt and Jordy say not let you leave.”

“I don’t want to go to Ovechkin’s party,” he snaps, slouched low in the seat, arms crossed and hat low.

Apparently body language is different in Russia. Or Geno’s ignoring him. “Is good. His hosts, never home. Nice house.”

“I don’t want to party with Ovechkin.”

“Is easy, Sidney. Drinks and girls.”

“What part of that sounds like it would appeal to me?” He’s being irrational, he knows. Doesn’t care, but knows.

Geno looks back at him again, long enough that he almost asks him to watch the road, except he doesn’t want to admit that he knows he’s being watched. “I don’t. Parties aren’t my thing, you know that. I don’t _get_ people.”

He’s always _that guy_ at the party, the one in the corner glaring, and he doesn’t really get why he keeps getting invited, except that someone sadistic must find that funny. So when he and Geno get there he offers to designate and promptly drops himself on the couch, watching everyone through lowered lashes. Maybe if he’s comparatively creepy enough he’ll be left alone without being forced towards the other creepy people at the party. And this is Ovechkin, there are probably lots of really creepy people.

He tries to focus on the TV a little bit — it’s a really nice TV but it’s not even on hockey so he loses interest pretty quickly. After that he just sits there, watching everyone else and trying and failing to not notice the way they’re all acting as though he’s not even there, like the couch is no man’s land there in the corner of the room. It looks like Ovechkin has invited at least half of the league, the house is jam-packed and he has no idea how there’s enough alcohol in the _world_ for all these people to be as drunk as they are. When he spies Flower the other boy’s busy coaxing one of the Bullies into making out with what appears to be a lampshade.

He sorta wants a beer now, needs it if he’s not gonna end up wanting to punch an annoying drunk in the face, so he ends up grabbing Flower’s arm to catch his attention. Max’s all but passed out on Flower’s shoulder, face pressed into his neck and arms wound around his waist while Flower keeps egging on the poor, drunk as fuck Bully.

He taps Max’s cheek, making him raise his head enough that he can see he’s been sucking on Flower’s neck or something, it’s red and his lips are wet.

 _Gross_.

“Hey!” he yells, maybe three centimeters from his ear. Max looks confused so he taps his cheek again. “Hey, kitchen. Where is it?”

“Th’rs no pro’tin ssshakes in ter.”

He rolls his eyes. “Beer, idiot.”

“K’tchun.”

“I.” He spies Jordy, and he at least looks like he’s not using his teammates as surrogate legs. “Never mind.”

“Sid!” Jordy is a really, really huggy drunk. Really, aside from the sudden physical contact, he’s basically indistinguishable from Jordy at games, when he’s not drunk. Or, when he’s probably not drunk. Hopefully. “When did you get here?”

Sidney stares, resists the urge to roll his eyes again purely because he’ll get a headache if he keeps it up. “I got here with Geno, asshole, I’ve been here for hours.”

“Oh.” He clearly has no idea what Sidney means.

He sighs. Maybe if he uses small words. “The kitchen. Where is it?”

Luckily that sinks in, Jordy leads the way and he follows close to his heels. There are a lot of people hanging out in there, easy access to the immediate supply of liquor. He still hasn’t seen Ovechkin, which is a little weird since he’s the host and all, but he hasn’t exactly been looking for him, either. Mainly he’s been curled up on the sofa with his arms crossed looking vaguely disapproving, so it’s possible he missed him in the crush. When Sidney makes it into the kitchen he has to elbow past a few people to get to the beer. Unfortunately it’s some of those gross American ones. He takes a few drinks before setting it down, not even bothering to guard it. Not like he’s gonna be coming back to it.

“Seeeeedney!” A heavy arm falls across his shoulders, he staggers a little as he tries to stay upright while Ovechkin drops what feels like his whole bulk on his back. “Zhenya say you come! I think he lie, but here you are! And in suit, just like real NHL star! “

“Um, yes.” He smells like liquor, it’s mixing with his cologne and sweat and overwhelming.

“What, you not have drink? Sidney, come now! Others, they say I bad host if I let Sidney Crosby not have drink.”

“They’ll just say you’re human.” And seriously, he’s gonna kill the whole Staal family if Jared picks this up like he looks like he wants to.

Ovechkin sounds horrified. “Cannot allow that!” And the next thing Sidney knows there’s a bottle being pressed to his mouth, cold glass against his lips as Ovechkin’s hand settles against his hipbone to steady him and he tips it against him.

He has exactly two options, either let it spill down his face or just accept the challenge and swallow, so he messily gulps down the steady flow of alcohol Ovechkin keeps feeding him. He misses a little, but not enough that he feels like he’s wasting it. It’s actually decent vodka, better than what he’s used to from these parties, so he’d feel bad if he spilled too much. He lets himself lean back against Ovechkin’s chest as the room shifts, and he pulls his head away with a grunt when he can’t take any more. At least it doesn’t feel like his throat’s been sanded away when Ovechkin lets him go, it went down smooth and with only a touch of burn. He staggers a bit when he loses the support of his body against his back, but he recovers quick enough even while his head swims, chasing some of the lost alcohol with his tongue. He might feel the brush of something against the base of his neck, but probably not.

Ovechkin turns him around, arms on his shoulders to stare at him intently. Sidney leans into him a little; the look in those blue eyes is calculating and not in the least bit drunk regardless of how he smells. “There, have drink and is good again, yes?”

Sidney’s having a little bit of a hard time focusing on what he’s saying. He settles on “Yes?” because it seems most likely to get Ovechkin to leave him alone so he can will his head to stop swimming. He can still feel Ovechkin’s heat against his body, and it has him dizzy.

“Good! Is good party!” Ovechkin yells, leaning into him more. “Sidney, you must meet girls, very hot and little drunk. Is best way to end good game, with good sex.”

He begins to feel ill for real. “That’s not . . .”

But he barely has it out before Ovechkin is gone, presumably off to find one of them. Sidney snatches Jared’s beer out of his hand, drinking half of it.

“Hey!” he cries, and Sidney shushes him.

“You’re too young anyway,” he reminds him, then grits his teeth because Ovechkin has girls, plural, on his arm. They’re both hot, in different ways, and he swallows down the rest of the beer before they get to him.

“Where are we going, Ovie?” the blonde — cute, wholesome — asks him and he smiles at her, draws their attention to Sidney.

“Ladies, is Sidney Crosby! He Captain of Seabirds, just won game like me.”

They both appraise him for a moment before the blonde smiles, a touch brittle. “So, where do you go to school?”

He sighs. This is why he hates parties. “With you. We have French together.”

They both blink at him, then the blonde tries again. “So you play hockey with Ovie?”

“No, Ovechkin plays with the Monuments. I’m Captain of the _Seabirds_.” He’s a little annoyed that neither one of them appears to be paying attention at all when he’s the one who’s probably a little drunk.

Ovechkin’s watching him like _Sidney_ is the one confusing _him_ , like he didn’t just drag the two girls over here despite Sidney’s protests. Like Sidney should be _grateful_ or some shit.

The two girls share a look over Ovechkin, and then they seem to reach some sort of agreement between themselves because the blonde leans a little harder into him while the brunette detaches, takes Sidney’s arm and smiles a little brittle.

“I’m Hope,” she says softly. “Let’s get out of here, hey?”

“I don’t want to have sex with you.” He should probably stop talking before she slaps him.

“Trust me, it’s mutual. But let’s stop cockblocking our friends, eh?” She hisses it low and annoyed, her short nails curl into the flesh of his forearm, and he goes with her because she looks like she might actually hurt him if he doesn’t.

So he goes with her, follows the path of least resistance for once in his life and lets Hope haul him upstairs, into a bedroom and he starts to panic when she locks the door behind them.

“Relax,” she orders, drops herself on the edge of the bed and glides her hand through her shiny dark hair, visibly irritated. “I’m just keeping you out of trouble while like _every_ other person in this party scores.”

Sidney’s got his shoulders against the door, the blades digging into the wood. “You, um. You play soccer, right?”

She actually smiles at him at that, and after a few minutes they’re discussing training programs, game schedules, and it’s nice. Sidney’s a little buzzed and so he’s looser than he normally would be and Hope is kind, lets him be. She’s actually easy to talk to when it comes down to it, when he just relaxes and lets himself talk to her without getting nervous. It helps that it’s sports. Sports he knows. But it’s all he knows, and after a few minutes it peters out.

The room is awkward, they’re just sorta staring at each other with Hope on the bed and Sidney pressed against the door as though he can will his molecules through it, like he’s a super hero like in those comics Nealer loves.

Hope finally gives up, rolling her eyes and pulling out her phone from where it was tucked somewhere inside her bra. ”Excuse me, I need to text a friend so they can give me an escape call.”

He’s never done it before, but he’s pretty sure that’s not how it’s supposed to work. ”Um, okay?” He would, too, except all his friends are here. And drunk. And not really friends so much as teammates.

Her phone buzzes in her lap and she glances at it, face neutral. ”Oh, look. My house is suddenly and conveniently on fire. Gotta go.”

This is not how it’s supposed to go, and he’s okay with that. He stands back to let her leave without another word.

She pauses in front of him, though, reaches up and musses up her fancy ponytail, biting her lip.

“Hey, get over here so I don’t look like a loser who was stuck babysitting a total freak.” But she’s smiling at him while she says it, leans over and messes up his hair, rumples his shirt and sighs. “Good enough,” she decides, pushing past him and out the door with a little saunter, Sidney following her out and trying to smooth his hair with a confused look on his face.

“Way to score on the goalie!” Jordy congratulates him as he wanders back into the heat of the party. He sorta hates himself right then when he realizes why she did that, feels like Hope got the short end of the stick on that one. But he’s too confused to really argue, even when Colby catches his eye and shakes his head slowly.

Colby has no right to be _disappointed_ in him, dammit, and he sorta wants to tell him that except TK is shoving a beer into his hand and Jordy is slapping his back like punches and when he gets away Colby’s somewhere else, taking his disapproving look with him.

He sets the beer down on a table and leaves it.

Geno isn’t anywhere in the immediate vicinity, and he wants to go home but he can’t leave him stranded here without at least asking if that’s okay. They came in his car, so it seems rude.

“Geno?” he manages when he corners Matt, and he gestures vaguely in the direction of ‘outside’.

It’s stupid cold outside, Russian or not, and Sidney is gonna kill him if he gets sick. Being Russian is no excuse for being dumb, though Ovechkin seems determined to prove him wrong on that point.

His head is starting to come back onto his shoulders and he’s torn between annoyed and horrified, most of those feelings directed squarely at Ovechkin, and he just wants to find Geno and get out of here while he still has some credibility left.

“Seeeedney!”

Oh, _fuck_.

“You like girl, right? She very hot, seems like you.” Ovechkin has about seven hands and they are all over Sidney all at once, and he still smells like alcohol and cologne, but now he also smells like sex and Sidney’s sorta freaked out. He smells like seven deadly sins all at once.

“Don’t you have other guests to assault?” he demands, flushing a really unique shade of red.

“No. Maxie and your Flower take off together hour ago. Zhenya outside missing Nikitushka, maybe crying, I dunno. And you are here, so I am good host and make sure you okay. Okay?” He nuzzles at Sidney’s neck, stubble scratching at the vulnerable skin and he shudders, trying to pull away.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he grinds out, shrugging him off for like the millionth time, turning to eye him. “Geno’s outside maybe crying and you’re worried about me?”

“You need me to worry more. Zhenya is fine, Russians can’t break.”

He’s crazy. “I’m going to find Geno and go home. I’m tired.”

“Great sex do that to you.”

“I’m not . . . We didn’t hook up, we talked. Guys and girls can do that, you know. And why aren’t you exhausted?”

“Was only okay sex. No problem, though. Is hard when drunk.” Ovechkin is watching him speculatively and Sidney’s getting a tiny bit paranoid the longer he stays silent and stares at him. Quiet Ovechkin means thinking Ovechkin, and that doesn’t seem to bode well for him, from past experience.

“Why you not being fun, Sidney? I invite you to party, you drink good vodka and meet very pretty girl, but you have no fun.”

“Some of us don’t think debauchery is fun,” he snaps. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I play hockey. Hockey is fun.”

“Hockey is _work_.”

“It’s also fun. I love it, it’s what I do, what I _am_.”

“I am hockey,” Ovechkin says softly, watching Sidney with those blue eyes that don’t match his face. “But I am also Alexander Ovechkin, and is different thing.”

Sidney blinks at him and he continues, moving closer to him. He’s fully in Sidney’s space now and he doesn’t feel like he can move back.

“Can be both things, Sidney. Do not have to be one or other. Who Sidney Crosby without hockey?”

Sidney stares, gapes, eyes flicking over Ovechkin’s features while his gut feels like he’s been hit by a oncoming truck. Ovechkin’s watching him all deadly serious, it’s a look that doesn’t suit his face in the same way Sidney is sure his own uncertainty looks utterly artificial on his features. That just doesn’t compute, he can’t imagine himself without hockey. Sidney wouldn’t be _Sidney_ without hockey, he just wouldn’t be. “I . . .”

Ovechkin has this look on his face, like he _pities_ him or something, like it’s Sidney who’s got the wonky priorities, like drinking and fucking around are somehow better than following your dreams and he’s not gonna deal with that expression on Ovechkin’s face, of all people. So he steps away.

“It’s just not _fair_ ,” he tries to explain to Geno on the drive home. Geno’s driving with his knuckles tight against his skin, eyes fixed on the road. Sidney offered to designate, but then Ovechkin and his stupid vodka had his way with him and he’s not even gonna risk buzzed because he’s not dumb. Geno’s sober, he drives.

Apparently the last person to sit in Geno’s car was pocket sized, because the front seat has his legs jammed up under his chin but he doesn’t care enough to move it back. “It’s not fair that Ovechkin comes over here and all I ever see him do is screw around and mess things up, but people are talking about him like he’s some sort of . . . like he’s some sort of hockey _miracle_ that suddenly showed up on the door, like we should be _grateful_ to have him here.”

“Told you he great one.” Geno’s English seems to be directly related to the time on the dash, but Sidney doesn’t really need him to be present in the conversation anyway. He’s doing okay on his own.

“It’s just. What, one game? He played _one game_ and they’re all set like he’s gonna be the next best innovation in the sport, or something. He plays with the _Monuments_ , for fucks sake. _Anyone_ looks good when they play for them!”

Geno’s blinking at him with dark eyes, quiet and letting him rant. _Whine_.

“It’s not fair,” he says finally, which is what he was getting at all along. ”I work like hell for my grades, for my team, and he gets it all so _easy_.”

“Is easy, you think?” Geno says quietly. ”You not ask, not know.”

Sidney stares at him, and Geno nearly misses his turnoff and has to make a slightly illegal U to slip into his neighborhood.

“Just asking,” he says, and his voice is mild even though Sidney’s clutching his door with white knuckles.

The car is quiet for the rest of the drive, and Sidney’s not sulking. Or, well. He’s not _only_ sulking, he’s also thinking. Because Geno might have a point. Ovechkin might be . . . something. He might have depths Sidney didn’t consider, but after a few minutes he rejects the idea because _no one_ is that good of an actor.

When they get to his house the lights are off but he knows his parents are probably still awake, because they’ve never been fully comfortable with Sidney being out so late. It’s just lucky he doesn’t like being out late. “Hey, so.”

“Give Alex chance, yeah?” Geno’s watching him like it’s something that means a lot to him. Maybe it does.

Sidney sighs, rolls his shoulders in something that’s not enough to count as a shrug or a refusal. It’s just small enough to not count as anything at all. “I can try.”

It’s not good enough, not by half, but Geno nods slowly.

“You can spend the night,” he offers after a second. “If you don’t want to drive.”

“Is fine.”

Sidney makes a face and Geno sorta blinks at him, then shrugs. “Is good. Not drunk.”

“I know, but.”

“Sidney.” He sighs, straightening in his seat. “ _Fine_. Not drunk, just sad.”

“Nikita?” he asks softly, and Geno gives him a smile that’s half rueful.

“Only place he like. Team party,” he reminds him, then shrugs. “You go in. Sleep, get ready for headlines tomorrow.”

His face contorts again. “Okay, but you feel wrong and you call me, okay?”

“Yes, Keptan.” Geno sounds like Chekov, and Sidney knows when he’s being mocked so he slaps his shoulder as he gets out of his seat.

“I mean it,” he chides, and Geno just rolls his eyes and starts up the car.

Sidney gets into his house earlier than later, but later than early, and he slumps up the stairs to his room. All he wants is to get some sleep and just forget the whole miserable evening. Forget Ovechkin pouring vodka down his throat, because that’s really where it all started. His stomach still feels sour from it, he can almost feel him against his back as he undresses and seriously, what is with his weird clinging tendencies? Geno _never_ clings to Sidney, and they’ve know each other a lot longer than a week. It’s one of his favorite things about Geno, the lack of clinging.

He’s exhausted, but apparently his hormones are bound and determined to not let him ignore them again. He scowls down at his dick, irritation attempting to replace the twist of arousal in his belly.

Unfortunately it doesn’t work.

He jerks off almost perfunctorily, not thinking about anything much except just how much he wants to be done with it so that he can finally wind down and go to sleep. His stupid teenaged body thankfully still doesn’t have a whole lot of stamina and he spills across his fist with a low sound of relief, reaching for a tissue before the warm waves have even stopped rolling through his body.

He doesn’t sleep well, but he does sleep which is one up on the rest of the team, he figures.

||

The next morning the paper seems to indicate that the universe has gone back to normal and no longer requires Ovechkin and his stupid goal celebrations to keep operating. There’s actual news with things like politics and business stuff and there’s also a photo of Sidney getting piled by his team under a nicely sized headline, but he doesn’t spend much time looking at that one since he was there. He’s normally right there with a hi-lighter marking up what Kizler had to say about their play because, weird man crush on Ovechkin aside, he’s a good sports writer who knows what he’s talking about. But right now he doesn’t really feel like looking at his name all written out like that, so he doesn’t.

He checks on his team, he’d be a horrible Captain if he didn’t and someone was dying in a ditch or something. When he’s sufficiently assured that everyone is both alive and cursing at him through their own hangovers he hangs up and curls up with his homework on the floor of his bedroom. The lights are dim, his head still feels soft and vulnerable and he’s not fully pleased with bright lights at the moment. It’s completely unfair that even that little amount fucks him over, but an even better incentive to not try it again.

When his phone goes off about an hour into it he answers, eyes trained on his book. “ ‘lo?”

“Ovie made me do it.”

Sidney blinks, checks his display. The doorbell goes off downstairs, but his parents are home and can deal with it. “Dutchy? What?”

“Ovie made me do it, I swear. I didn’t want to tell him, but there was a lot of vodka and he’s like, completely intense.”

Sidney is starting to hate the sound of that name. “What did you do?”

“. . .” The line is silent for long enough he wonders if he dropped the call. “You don’t know?”

“No?” He’s getting suspicious.

“I’m sorry.” Matt’s voice sounds sad and small and young, he can barely hear him over the sound of Taylor tearing up the stairs full speed.

“Matt, what did . . .”

“Seeeedney!”

There is no fucking way that . . . “Ovechkin?”

“Shit,” he hears Dutchy mutter, and the line goes dead.

Alexander Ovechkin is standing in the door of his bedroom, ratty old backpack, held together with patches and stickers and stubborn determination, slung over his shoulder. He’s grinning so big his face looks like it might split with sheer appreciation for his own cleverness, dressed in a tight pair of jeans that appear to have survived the defense of Leningrad and a bright pink t-shirt with Miss Piggy and a real feather boa on it. It looks like something Taylor would refuse to wear. And Sidney is still in his track pants.

He hates his life.

“Sidney! Need help with Shakespeare, Dutchy give me address!” He comes into his room without any sort of invitation at all, throwing his ancient bag onto Sidney’s bed where he swears it lets off a puff of dust.

He just cleaned his sheets, dammit.

“You didn’t think to ask _me_ if I’d help you? What about Jordy?”

Ovechkin looks up at him, buried elbows deep in his backpack. “You Sidney, of course you help. Plus, you were off not getting sex.”

“I. Fine.” Apparently he’s predictable. Unfortunately he’s also Sidney; he can’t be anything but. Geno told him to give Alex a chance, and he owes Geno that much, at least the benefit of a doubt.

He grins, grabbing out his books and dropping himself onto the floor and half into Sidney’s lap. He’s fucking heavy, so Sidney scoots away. “What do you need help with?”

“You read paper?”

This isn’t happening. “Yes.”

“I play good on Friday, yes? First game in North America, was important to play good.” Ovechkin is watching him, Sidney can see it out of the corner of his eyes. He looks intent, like he really needs to hear whatever he thinks about that article; he wants Sidney to have opinions on a game he didn’t see.

“. . .That has nothing to do with Shakespeare,” Sidney says and then turns back to his book.

Ovechkin goes quiet and still next to him, long enough that maybe he’s really actually studying. That would be great, Sidney would love it so he can get onto his own things. But the illusion is broken when he interrupts him a few minutes later. “Paper say I made good impression on town, other teams?”

He shuts his book, glares. This isn’t fair at all. Sidney would much rather talk about hockey than Shakespeare, but he’s also graded on Shakespeare and if he’s bad at it he won’t be playing any hockey to talk about. “That still has nothing to do with Shakespeare. I don’t want to talk . . .” about you and your stupid goals, except when he looks at Ovechkin he seems.

Unsure. He looks weird, nervous and uncertain and like he’s looking for some sort of approval from _Sidney_ of all people.

“You did fine,” he says after a few seconds of silence that rapidly become awkward, feeling almost bad about it. “You need better recovery on turnovers, though.”

“I have fabulous recovery!” he shoots back, bristling, and there we go. Ovechkin is pushy, Sidney is annoyed, Universe back in order.

Sidney looks at him for a second, says, “No, not really,” and goes back to his book.

He should probably expect the tackle, except for how his team has learned not to touch him too much, and so he’s not used to it at all.

“Ow!” He ends up with an elbow in his solar plexus, rebruising his chest as Ovechkin takes him down and then keeps him there despite the rather creative profanity he’s unleashing upon him. He’s thrashing around and Ovechkin is laughing at his ineffective attempts to get free, holding him down and demanding that he take it back. He’s heavy and he’s got Sidney in a way that he can’t quite throw him off no matter how much he wriggles and thrashes.

“I won’t take it back, it’s the truth!” he snaps, throwing a wild elbow worthy of Chris Pronger. “Get off of me, _Christ_.”

He must sound like he means it, Ovechkin lets him up and paws at his shoulder in either apology or just his usual gropey handedness. “Is jealousy, I know. I forgive you.”

Sidney gathers up Ovechkin’s books. “You should go.” He doesn’t owe Geno _this_.

He stares at him, blinks those weird blue eyes, and Sidney shoves his books at him again. “Go. I need to get work done. If you want to screw around that’s your problem but I’m not going to let you mess up my grades.” Like you’ve messed up my game he doesn’t say, because that’s Sidney’s own damn fault.

“You wound, Sidney,” he says, taking his books from him. “Is fun. Serious has place, fun also has a place. Is not bad, having fun.”

“It is when I need to be working,” he insists, turning back to his papers.

“You ever _not_ need to be working?”

God, _fuck_ Ovechkin. But dammit, his parents raised him to be polite and soft spoken and do his best for people, and that is really kicking him in the ass today. “You don’t know me. Just don’t tackle me again. And don’t talk about hockey, it’s distracting.”

Sidney goes back to his own homework and lets him settle in again, though God knows why he’s being so nice. Ovechkin pokes his finger into Sidney’s side after a few seconds and holds up what looks like the world’s most tragic version of Hamlet. “We work on this, now?”

Sidney’s not done with chemistry, but the sooner they do Shakespeare the sooner Ovechkin can leave.

He nods and sets to dig out his own dog eared copy. There’re notes and graffiti all over the margins and the cover is falling off but it’s still better than Ovechkin’s, which looks like it might have been through a meat grinder at some point and then put back together by someone who didn’t know what page numbers meant, or even what direction English was read in.

“No wonder you suck at this class,” Sidney grumbles when it takes them ten minutes and half his floor to get the whole thing put back together again.

“Not my fault,” Ovechkin insists, handing Sidney the next page. “Last student, I get last book. Last book was eaten by wolves, looks like.”

“What have you been doing, reading it out of order?”

He stares at him for a few seconds, then rolls his eyes, the asshole. “Is called Internet. Great for finding free books, and also porn.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Sidney grumbles, piecing the last bits together. “Okay, it’s all together again. I’m gonna go get some tape, don’t let another Tasmanian devil attack it while I’m gone.”

Ovechkin must not get the cultural reference, but it doesn’t matter. “Just don’t let it get chewed on or something,” he admonishes. It looks like that’s the only thing that hasn’t happened to it so far, but at least when he begs the packing tape off his mom and gets back upstairs it’s still in one piece of correct order.

Sidney rips off long strings of tape and starts working the binding together while Ovechkin gets in his way and is no help whatsoever. He tapes it together essentially by himself, and then Ovechkin flips through it with a little smile on his face. Pleased, like he did something, anything, to make it work out like that.

“We read out loud, yes? Byrns, he tells me it is easier to understand when read.” He looks weirdly hopeful and Sidney agrees after a few seconds. Mr. Byrns hasn’t said that in class, he’s usually one of the least helpful teachers he’s ever had but okay, maybe he gave Ovechkin a little bit of added assistance.

He has a grasp of Shakespeare that Sidney wasn’t prepared to believe he had, but he’s in AP English so apparently he’s a lot brighter than his general demeanor indicates. Really, looking at him, Sidney would have been impressed if he was able to talk beyond grunts. His profile really is strong, like imperfect granite strong, his nose is aggressive and his jaw just looks bloody minded. It’s like his whole face gives off the air of stubborn determination, not a trace of thoughtfulness, which is what makes his ready smiles so strange.

And then he has to get back to paying attention to Shakespeare because he’s not supposed to be spending his time looking at Ovechkin. That’s weird.

He has a good voice, too, when he’s reading out loud. Sidney . . . he’s not quite soothed by it, but he definitely appreciates the tone and flow of it. It’s not effortless by a long shot, and Sidney has to correct him quite a few times and Alex makes faces at him but then he tries again and gets it right and looks so proud of himself that it almost looks like gratitude, even though the words never actually leave his mouth.

“You read too bland,” Ovechkin decides after Sidney works his way through a large chunk of dialogue. How the hell he ended up as Rosencrantz _and_ Guildenstern, having to dialogue back and forth to himself, is beyond him. But Ovechkin had thrown a fit that he wanted to be Hamlet, and he had the most lines so somehow Sidney ended up reading every other person. “Could not tell who was talking, unless I looked at book. That’s underachieving, Sidney. What would teacher say?”

“I’m not an _actor_ ,” he whines, lowering his head. “I can’t even act naturally as _myself_.”

“I know.” He’s grinning wide and silly. “Be _better_ , Sidney.”

Sidney rolls his eyes, pushes at him and says, “Oh, fuck you.”

“Later, parents might hear if we did now.” Ovechkin bumps into him and Sidney hisses out a breath between his teeth as he turns a shade of pink to match Ovechkin’s shirt.

Ow, _bruise_. “That hurts.”

He does it again, the asshole. “How you play hockey when you complain about hurts so much?”

“I do _not_.”

Ovechkin looks wise and certain and serene. “Zhenya, he tell me.”

“Geno needs to stop telling you things.”

“. . . and Flower, and Talbot, and TK, and your Staal collection, and . . .”

His teammates are all horrible people who will be skating Herbies until they die.

“Okay, okay _fine_. I _get_ it.” He might add a little extra inflection, and Ovechkin laughs at him while he risks a shy smile in his general direction. And then Ovechkin makes him read Ophelia because they’re “Like soul mates, Ophelia and Sidney Crosby!”, so he’s back to feeling bitter pretty quickly.

They bicker back and forth about interpretations and metaphor and a few other things, but mostly they just do their lines until they reach the end of their required reading for the week. It’s sorta cool, it took a lot longer than just reading it but Sidney feels like he might actually have a decent grasp of what happened, too, so it’s sorta a trade off for the time.

When they’re done Alex doesn’t make any move to leave. He just nods slowly, tucks his newly resurrected book into his backpack and digs something else out. It looks like trig when Sidney glances suspiciously over after a few moments of silence pass uneventfully. It’s just a little unnerving that he’s completely prepared to camp out on Sidney’s floor for the rest of the day and do _all_ of his homework with him, but whatever. He has other things to get done, too.

He pulls out his phone and starts texting Max (and Flower by proxy) for French help and he’s able to knock that out pretty quick despite near constant reminders that what he’s learning isn’t real French. After that he starts working on calc, and Ovechkin is working on something like maybe biology or anatomy or something, and minutes start to pass with just the sounds of paper and pens scratching on worksheets and the occasional sigh from both of them. It’s not really natural, Sidney’s not used to someone being in his room or scooting so close that he can feel their warmth, taking up his space, but it’s not so bad. When Ovechkin’s not talking he’s apparently tolerable. Or something.

“Ey.” Sidney manages to dodge the elbow aimed at his blind side, and Alex grins like it’s a lesson learned. “We have lunch.”

“Do they not have polite requests where you’re from?” he grumbles, setting his textbook on the floor and wiggling his toes out to get the feeling back in them. There’s a cramp in his stomach that means he’s hungry, but he’s not gonna let Alex push him around inside his own house.

“We have lunch, _please_?” He bats his eyelashes and Sidney snorts, pushing himself to his feet with a little rumble of sound as muscles stretch out and get used to motion again.

“You’re not pretty enough for that to work. C’mon, there’s sandwiches and stuff in the fridge,” he decides after a moment. He really is hungry. “We’ll make something.”

Ovechkin lumbers to his feet and Sidney spares a thought for how amusing it must be watching him get taken out at games, but then Ovechkin shoulder checks him and takes off, and he has to start chasing.

His mom is working on the dinner table, and she arches an eyebrow at him as he and Ovechkin come slamming into the kitchen, Sidney edging him out with a sweet deke move around the doorframe.

“Sorry,” he apologizes after a second of thought, pulling open the fridge. “We’re gonna have some sandwiches, okay?”

“That’s fine. Whole wheat,” she reminds him, voice on rote as though he would _really_ want to eat Taylor’s over processed white bread.

Well, he sorta wants to, but he won’t. It’s the principle of the thing.

Ovechkin, on the other hand, has no such compunctions and reaches over Sidney’s shoulder to snag the bread out, then starts digging around in their cabinets like he lives there until he comes up with jelly and peanut butter.

“Is good!” he declares when he sees the look on Sidney’s face. “Very Canadian. I should learn to be better Canadian.”

Sidney can’t help staring at him, but he makes his turkey on dry bread and tries not to judge the sheer amount of peanut butter he slathers on there. It proves he’s the better person, or something, because Alex is chirping his lunch.

“Christ,” he mumbles, head down. “Is there _anything_ about my life you don’t feel the need to judge?”

He considers it for a second. “Your room very clean.”

“. . . That sounds like judging.” He pushes past Ovechkin to the counter, except there’s a hand on his shoulder stopping him from getting past. He turns, looks down at it. “Um, okay. Let go.”

“Is nice, most rooms not so clean.” When Sidney looks away from his hand to meet his eyes there’s something weirdly vulnerable in his expression for a few seconds. His thumb touches lightly against Sidney’s pulse like he wants Sidney to believe in his sincerity, so Sidney shakes his hand off easier than he would normally do. “Thank you.”

They eat their sandwiches in relative silence, and Sidney gets up to refill his glass a couple times, and it’s quiet but whatever, when Ovechkin is quiet he doesn’t want to kill him, and it’s sorta good.

||

He really doesn’t want to tell anyone what he did this weekend, not necessarily because he has anything to be ashamed of, but because he ended up being forced to play video games with Ovechkin just to get him to shut up, which isn’t as much shame worthy as it is just really embarrassing, because he kept losing. And then he didn’t leave because Sidney’s mom is a good hostess and invited him to dinner. He ended up not actually heading out until they’d spent pretty much the entire day and a good chunk of the night together.

His parents and Taylor adored Ovechkin, and normally she judges his friends like no one’s business. Which sorta goes to figure with the way his life seems to insist on being weird ever since Sidney met him.

It also doesn’t help that Monday’s paper seems obsessed with their game against the Monuments that’s coming up in a few weeks, which he has conveniently bumped from his mind because it’s not a big deal. There’s an article on the sports previews, and even a few editorials that his mom cut out to paste into the scrapbook she keeps for him, people sounding off on what it’s gonna be like to see their home spun boy playing against this Russian track bomb. It’s still weeks into the future and they’re anticipating it like it’s gonna be some sort of tournament game.

“It’s just another game,” he reminds Geno at practice, a line they’ve heard Patch yell at them often enough today. Geno snorts when he hears it coming from Sidney though, because it’s never ‘just another game’ when it comes to Sidney Crosby.

“Will never be just another game,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “Not when Sanja play now.”

It’s not like Sidney doesn’t know that, but it’d be nice if someone let him forget that for like _sixteen_ seconds.

Coach is running them hard, he’s got a subscription and two good eyes too and he knows that even if it’s not gonna affect seeding, win or lose, they’re still getting watched as hard as if it were. First words he’d said before sending them out to warm up were “It’s just another game, and we’re not going to lose, but if we do we’re gonna make your lives living misery” and that seems to be the general consensus with all the coaching staff. He doesn’t let up, not when they manage to take the Thunder on Thursday and certainly not when they lose to the Bears the week after that. He just keeps pushing them, pushing Sidney, in a way that has him fraying at the corners in ways he’ll never admit to. Weeks of it.

“Hey, so.” Colby’s at his side, stretching a little while they wait for their names to be called. “We’re gonna grab dinner after practice, you and me.”

That’s a little weird, normally he’s off with his girlfriend the second he doesn’t reek of locker room, but maybe she’s deathly ill or something. “Okay?” Sidney offers after a second.

“There’s shit we’re gonna have to talk about.” Colby’s always been the one that knows how to make Sidney talk, and Geno gets him without words but Colby gets him in other ways, there’s not really a point in arguing or protesting when he looks so serious like that. “This Ovechkin thing’s been going on too long to pretend it’s not happening.”

“Okay,” he sighs, and he’s grateful to hear his name because there are so many things he doesn’t want to talk about with Colby, but Ovechkin’s near top of the list for right now, right above “Colby’s sex life” and only slightly behind “That one thing that happened, y’know, that one time.”

“And you have to answer in more than one syllable.”

Apparently he’s on to him. “Fine, Colby,” he grunts as he skates off. He has better things to do than talk to Colby about his imaginary rivalry with Ovechkin.

Coach could never be accused of favoritism — he knows his team and he knows all their weaknesses and strengths and what he doesn’t know Bylsma does — but he’s pushing Sidney visibly harder than the rest of the team. It’s nothing too new, Sidney can take it when it’s what it’ll take to make him better, but there’s an edge to his orders that’s something new. He’s examining Sidney not just for play, but for a specific _style_ of play, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out whose style that is. He’s pushing him to be faster, duck and dodge cleaner, and he has Geno taking runs at him like mirror plays he’s seen on YouTube, so clearly Sidney’s not the only one who did his research. Sidney’s okay with practice, even though Geno is a million times more careful than Ovechkin would be.

Colby kidnaps him almost immediately after they get clean and changed into their street clothes. He takes his arm and drags him out with a few protests from Sidney, but no more than Colby can handle because he can handle Sidney, especially when he’s Sidney being _Sidney_.

Colby picks this little hippie diner that’s only open half of normal operating hours but has food that Sidney will allow himself to eat. He knows no one else on the team likes it — hell, not even he does, but it’s a nice gesture anyway. They’re barely in their table before Colby’s turning towards him, eyes fixed and pinning him. Sidney pauses in opening his menu. “What?”

“Okay, spill. Everyone’s bugging you about Alex, and it’s gotta be making you mad somewhere inside, Sid. You get pissed when you’re compared to fucking _Gretzky_ , don’t tell me all these people focusing on him isn’t pissing you off.” He puts his hand on Sidney’s menu so he can’t hide behind it because he knows his friend.

He opens his mouth to deny it, but this is _Colby_. He shuts it again with an audible click. “Okay, fine,” he grinds out after a moment. “You want to know what I’m thinking for real? I think he hasn’t _done_ enough to compare him to me. I think it’s unfair to the _both_ of us to be thrown in each other’s faces like prized roosters when this isn’t an individual’s sport. I’m sick of being asked what I think when I’m trying not to think anything about him at all. He’s a showoff and a distraction and . . .” His voice is picking up pitch the longer he talks until it reaches the end and it’s almost cracking. “. . . and I think his smile is stupid.”

Colby laughs, reaching over to punch his shoulder. “I’m with you on that. On all of it.”

“. . . you are?”

He glances over, shrugs. “Maybe not the smile bit, I’ve never noticed that. But, yeah, of course. I mean, I get it. No one’s gonna be throwing my name around at the top of the greats lists or anything, but I get where it’s gotta sting a little bit to share the limelight all of a sudden.”

Sidney’s silent for several minutes and Colby lets him be, lets him think before he finally says “It’s not about . . .”

“Bullshit. You hate the attention but you’ve also got an ego. It’s why you’re competitive. Ovechkin’s challenging that and it’s pissing you off.”

He’s glaring. “It’s not _all_ about that, then.”

“And it iiiiis about . . .?”

“Being thrown in with him like either one of us matter so damn much, when we’re both good but for different things and deserve to be different people. People talking about us like we’re so similar when what’s interesting is how _different_ we are. It’s like I don’t wanna play against him because I’m so sick of his name already, before he’s even _done anything_.” He really wants his menu back so he can ignore Colby for a few seconds. His voice is getting high again and he can feel how bad he’s whining and he can’t stop.

Colby finally releases his menu, leaning back with a wide gesture. “There we go. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Sidney’s been forced into admitting a vulnerability on the ice, and it’s pissing him off. “I’m getting brussel sprouts,” he announces and watches Colby’s face fall.

“Hey, now,” he says, hands up. “I was just trying to help. No reason to be nasty, Sid.”

True to the unspoken man code, though, that’s all that Colby says about it the rest of the meal. Ovechkin drops from the queue of things to talk about and they spend most the meal throwing things at each other but trying to look sly about it, like Sidney wouldn’t realize Colby was the one who threw a half eaten portion of Colby’s fries at him.

Sidney doesn’t precisely have friends, he’d be the first to admit to that, but Colby’s probably the closest. Because while Colby’s talking about his girlfriend, and how crazy she can be, Sidney’s thinking about hockey but Colby knows that and he’s basically okay with it.

Or, well. Maybe he’s thinking about Ovechkin, a little bit, but only because Colby brought him up in the first place.


	4. Chapter 4

Ovechkin starts going through his weird boy in the bubble routine on Thursday the next week, getting quieter and not bugging them so much, and on Friday he’s not at the lunch table even though he still sat with Sidney and Jordy in English. Which is good, it means Cooke doesn’t have to run him off or anything when they start discussing practice and what they think they’re gonna do at the game tonight.

“Coach Gai’s gonna try and line match you to Ovie as much as he can, you watch.” Tanger looks kinda ominous, and Flower elbows him before turning to Sidney.

“Ignore the little fuckface. He’s gonna be worried about matching defense to you. Like he always tries.” He snorts, because yeah. Most of the Monuments’ defense can’t touch Sidney even on an off day, but being smug isn’t exactly great either.

Letang continues, “Except Ovie’s the only one on the ice who can match you shot for shot.”

“He cannot, you traitor,” Max leaps in to Flower’s defense.

“I’m not a traitor; he’s really fucking good at power plays . . .” He’s been watching him, they all have.

“How would you even know, Tanger Mouse?”

That devolves into a scuffle involving lots of inappropriate French words, and Sidney just sits and eats his lunch slowly and methodically, not particularly paying attention to anything that’s going on. They might be talking about him but it’s not like it actually concerns him or anything. He’s gotten really good at ignoring people who are talking about him without involving him at all.

Geno hands him one of those stupid mini packs of M&Ms that aren’t any fun at all, and he takes it silently which is about the time Max and Letang stop bickering because they realize their main audience hasn’t even been paying any attention at all to their antics.

“They probably will line match me to Ovechkin, at least a little,” he says, pouring the candy into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “People wanna see us, it’ll make a good show. That’s okay, though. Patch’s been getting all of us ready for that, and I can take him. I think.”

“Not take him. He wipe floor with you, Sid,” Geno reminds him patiently, then rounds on Kris. “You keep eyes, right? If I not on his line, you keep eyes on Sidney. Ovechkin play like defense, he take him out.”

Tanger looks properly terrified of the notion of something happening to Sid on his watch. Sidney just rolls his eyes, though, because he’ll never get over the fact that his team seems to think that he’s fragile or something.

“I sorta feel bad for Ovie,” Duchene mumbles absently, mouth full of food. He’s just a kid but he looks wistful as he watches Ovechkin badger his way into the table where the dance team has taken up residence.

“For Ovie? I feel bad for the _dance team_.”

They all start laughing at that, even Sidney. He stops sooner than anyone else and resumes looking thoughtful, though. He’s not really worried about the game, per se. Not any more than he’s worried for every game that they play. Nerves and obsessive compulsive perfectionism make for a sort of nausea inducing cocktail the closer and closer they get to ice time. But he’s sorta hyper aware of everything, it feels like a playoff game instead of one that’ll barely even count. The Seabirds are fully seeded, the Monuments will only make it in on some pretty unlikely losses.

It really is just another game, that’s something he’s heard and it’s something he believes, too. That’s why his nerves are so strange. It’s not like he’s ever _not_ nervous before games, but rarely to this degree. It’s a weird sensation of nerves and anticipation that follows him all the way to the game, into the locker room where everyone’s suiting up and joking and that stupid bruise from Ovechkin has finally dissolved out of his skin so that he doesn’t have to hear the same damn joke over and over and over again.

“You okay?” Geno asks him as he stretches his shoulders out, and Sidney turns his head to blink at him a little. He hadn’t heard him sneaking up.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Is okay, have nerves. Have . . .” Geno struggles with the English word for what he wants for a moment before he gives up. “Have feelings for what is coming.”

“Anticipation?”

“Yes.” He nods, smiles. “That.”

And it’s not like it’s something Sidney has really been considering. He’s not looking forward to meeting Ovechkin on the ice, he’s not looking forward or dreading or anything. It’s something that’s gonna happen regardless of how he feels about it, so he’s just been accepting it as reality and moving on.

Except that maybe he has been looking forward to it. At least a little bit. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but Geno’s watching him like he wants him to understand something, so he pretends. “Okay. Um. Thanks. I guess.”

Geno bumps their helmets together. “Tanger and I, we keep eyes out for you. Make sure he not hurt you like that time.”

His ribs give a slight twinge at the memory, long since healed. “Thank you,” he says with absolute sincerity.

TK is dancing around in his gear, Flower is doing some sort of hyper bendy goalie stretches that Max is watching intently, and Sidney takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment.

Yeah. He’s ready for this. He doesn’t have much of a choice one way or another, the game’s gonna happen regardless of how ready he is, but he _is_ ready. He’s studied the tapes that he could get his hands on thanks to the all-powerful Google and Geno helping him with his spelling. He’s as ready as he can be, he feels good and his skates fit perfectly when they hit the ice for warm-ups.

The crowd is the usual mix for opposing ice, family and fans and but mostly conflicting sounds as they skate their warm-ups. Most of the team fires a few pucks at Flower but Sidney just skates, round and round, learning the ice. Sometimes it’s Geno beside him, sometimes it’s Colby, even Jordy takes his turn but mostly it’s just Sidney being Sidney, doing his own thing.

He’s aware of the tension filling the air — it would be hard not to be with it crackling like a lightning storm and trying to ground itself in him. He wonders at least a little bit, though he knows he shouldn’t, what it’s gonna be like when Ovechkin hits the ice. It’s distracting in its own way, but he needs to be prepared for what’s gonna happen when the audience switches from crackling to electric, when it explodes.

He doesn’t even have to be looking to know the exact moment the Monuments — Ovechkin — hit the ice. It’s as clear as a ratcheting of friction in the air, matched to the sounds of skates hitting the ice.

Just like there’s no need to know that Ovechkin is headed right at him. The crowd tells him without him ever needing to look up, getting hushed and then jacking up the noise in a split second of timing. It’s Alex’s home ice, for all he hasn’t been here long enough to really count anything as home, and the crowd is loud enough to know he’s outnumbered. When he turns to react Geno is already there, arms and stick braced in front of Ovechkin to stop him maybe ten feet back from where Sidney has paused. Their voices are tight and Russian, rising and falling in a conversation he has no hope in understanding. He pivots, goes to continue only Ovechkin’s voice stops him cold.

“I just come to say ‘good luck’, okay Sid?” The A on his uniform looks so fresh and new. He’s only been wearing it a few weeks, it feels like a few weeks too soon, but that’s not Sidney’s choice. Ovechkin turns to look at Geno with an expression that clearly states that he thinks the other boy’s unnecessarily suspicious. “See, Zhenya? All I wanted to say to him.”

Sidney squares his shoulders, throws them back and pushes his hand out towards Ovechkin like a challenge. “Good luck,” he echoes, and waits for a response.

Ovechkin stares at him for a moment before bumping his fist. “Yes. You will need it.”

“In your dreams.” His smile is tight and forced but it’s there. The same look is on the taller boy’s face, and it dawns on him in a sudden, weirdly obvious insight that he’s probably been asked about him, Sidney, at least as often. “We’re going to beat you,” he says, surprised at the tightness in his own voice.

Ovechkin observes him seriously, a somber look that’s completely out of place on his face. “You wish,” he offers after a moment, breaking into a grin that makes something inside Sidney boil.

“Okay, is good. Move it on,” Geno says, he almost sounds like he’s pleading with Alex as he pushes him away. He skates back a little, eyes still on Sidney, and Sidney feels weirdly out of breath at the way he’s just _looking_ without blinking.

It’s a relief when he breaks eye contact, when Ovechkin starts warming up and the crowd returns to their median level of noise and Sidney can finally resume breathing normally.

He’s never been so eager for a game to just be _over_ before it’s even _begun_.

When first lines go out Sidney doesn’t even blink to see Ovechkin right there, perched on the wing and trying to stare him down on the faceoff. Their center’s not particularly impressive, not much of a challenge and Sidney scores the puck pretty easy once it drops.

He doesn’t tend to think a lot when he’s on the ice. It’s mostly muscle memory, action and reaction without a lot of higher thought processes in there. He’s more analytical than Ovechkin; he saw that the one time they practiced together, saw it on some of the clips and sees it now, but he’s still not precisely a _thinker_. Which is good, because his conscious thoughts aren’t enough to keep up with what’s going on, aren’t up to the task of tracking Ovechkin and the puck.

He throws himself headfirst for halos into the pursuit of the puck, leaving the rest of the team behind him, and he almost misses line changes because they aren’t _important_. What’s important is that puck, is Ovechkin and his handling of it and anticipation of a single fumbled pass, of recovery off of Flower’s pads.

He's getting tired, throwing himself around and getting off the ice at the last second, but he barely feels it at all inside his body or his muscles. Sidney doesn’t have the option of tired or anything. He has to do what he’s doing, chasing the puck and when Matt sets him up for a textbook shot with four minutes left in the first his arm is moving before he’s even conscious of what they’re moving _toward_. He catches it on the blade, enough of a bounce to tuck it into the upper glove quadrant.

He’s completely expecting the reaction from the moment he sees the puck sail through, hears Dutchy’s whoop. The crowd mostly hisses but there’s a fair share of applause mixed in there as well.

He smiles once, tight and neutral, rolls his fists into the air and then skates to the boards, accepting the helmet slaps with a shy grin. They echo through his head as Dutchy and Nealer and then the rest come and pile him, pinning him against the boards with approval. Assist for Matt, goal to Sidney.

The whole game flows different with Ovechkin on the ice. The Monuments still aren’t precisely a _challenge_ but they’re playing more like an actual, coherent team instead of the mish mash they’d played like before. Alex hasn’t completely changed the culture of their game or anything, but he’s refined it. Gainan is a good coach, he knows how to work his strengths into the team dynamic.

The thing is, Sidney’s not distracted by Ovechkin. Somehow, back when he’d been thinking about facing him a paranoid, distrustful part of himself suspected that maybe he would be. But now that they’re here, and Sidney’s skating against him and they’re line matched and weaving around each other like a tease it’s easier than ever to just forget everything except that he’s on the ice and he’s supposed to be playing. It doesn’t matter against whom, except that they’re talented and he has to watch himself.

Flower’s been in goal and he’s been golden. Some of his saves look more like luck than pure skill or anything but that doesn’t matter. Lucky saves are just as valid as ones made through skill or training or whatever. Flower’s blocking what they throw at him, no matter what they throw at him, and that extends into the third period.

Third period can sometimes turn into a period of relative relaxation, but not with Ovechkin on the ice.

Sidney’s been line matched to him almost the whole night, seeing his stupid grin on the other side of face-offs like he’s really amused by how Sidney is schooling his center.

Maybe he’s trying to psych him out. Maybe he’s fully aware how damn annoying his smile is to Sidney. That seems a little more aware than he’s prepared to believe Ovechkin is, but the universe sometimes has surprises in store for him.

So he’s slowly getting used to just ignoring him. It takes some pretty Zen thinking on his part, but strictly speaking Ovechkin is just another player.

Technically.

Sorta.

A really good other player who skates like his legs were made to move like that. And that’s not something Sidney is used to noticing, but Ovechkin . . . he plays a good game. He moves in a grand, utterly unselfconscious way that reads as aggression with the way he hunkers down, the way he pushes past people without a lot of fancy moves but a lot of force and speed. He’s sorta like the whole game of hockey distilled into a single person, aggression and grace and speed all mixed up. He’s nice to watch, almost demands it. It’s a realization that doesn’t sit well inside Sidney’s gut, it’s too much about _Ovechkin_ and not enough about the game itself and that’s not what it should be about. But he sorta can’t help just watching the way he plays and bends the game.

Ovechkin’s out without Sidney matching him, start of the third and resting him up for the final push, or that’s what Patchett is saying. Sidney’s a little out of breath but he’s still riding a third or fourth wind, one of those that’s short lived but incendiary when he’s got it. He’s crackling with the desire to get over the boards and face off against Ovechkin again. For all he was sorta dreading this game, wanting it over so that people would just shut up and leave him alone for a while, now that he’s playing it he just wants out there again.

He’s watching Ovechkin on the ice, eyes tilted towards him and admiring the way his legs pump when he’s in a straight rush, the way his hips shift and really drive him forward with purpose when Max elbows him, digging into his side. “Hey, Sid.”

“Yeah?” He turns to him, away from admiring Ovechkin’s reflexes in the clutch, and Max is grinning at him with the widest, stupidest grin he’s ever seen on his face. And that’s saying a bit.

“You sure you weren’t looking forward to this game as much as they were?” With ‘they’ he throws his head towards the crowds, the boisterous noise as they cheer Ovechkin towards the goal.

He turns away, back to watching Alex skate. “I always look forward to games.”

“You’re watching him skating a lot. It’s sorta sappy and gay, Sid.”

He feels his lower jaw drop, turns towards Max who’s looking at him utterly unrepentantly, and then he hears the crackle of the Monuments’ fucking annoying goal horn and knows from the sheer volume of sounds coming from the stands that it was Ovechkin.

His head pivots back to the ice like it’s on bearings, and he sees Ovechkin kiss his glove, raising it towards the rafters before pressing it to his chest and lowering his head. It’s a look of such outright piety that it’s comical, it’s a gesture that’s both humble and showy and Sidney grits his teeth so hard he can feel a muscle jump in his temple. Alex’s team is all over him, arms around him, screaming and celebrating, closer to their new A than Sidney thinks his own team has ever been with him, more purely comfortable.

He’s over the boards before Patch is even done calling for the line change, legs singing as he rushes out for retribution.

At this point neither one of the coaches want to risk pulling their first line for long, so when Sidney goes out he’s against their second line but that lasts for such a short period he practically blinks and it’s over. It’s single digits in the third and they’re line matched all over again.

It’s furious, the pace is fast and hectic and it’s like he’s in his element and everything’s happening with crystal clarity. He slips away with the puck from a sloppy pass and he just _goes_.

Sidney’s racing it down the center with a few minutes left to go when Ovechkin barrels at him like a runaway train. He’s moving fast but not as restrained as he could be and Sidney manages a neat deke around his left side (he _knew_ Ovechkin seemed vulnerable there).

Or maybe not, because Ovechkin manages to hit him. Just plows into him like he had that day with Geno, treating Sidney like he’s an inconvenient road sign on his way towards bigger fish. It’s nice and clean, fully legal and he manages to hang on to it even though he’s going down and he’s pretty much naked out here, Matt’s covered and Nealer’s at a bad angle, so he has to just do it.

He can throw the puck back in a desperate pass, or he can shoot.

It’s happening in seconds, split seconds of action boiling down to that moment when he sees the chance and just fires it in before he hits the ice without the slightest chance of catching himself.

Their goalie’s no good at kick saves, the puck slips into a gap left vulnerable by the range of motion in his hips, slips in and past him to swish the net.

Neal gets to him first but Matt’s right behind, arms extended like a windmill as he flies into him, knocking him back into the ice.

He’s expecting it, but that doesn’t mean he’s great at taking it.

Sidney splays out across the ice like a ragdoll, Neal piled on top of him with Dutchy following in short order, ice cold against the back of his neck. And then the rest of the team is piled on him, pressing him down into the ice and he’s laughing, giddy and cheerful and completely exhausted as the ice sucks out the last bit of red hot energy he’d been holding inside himself. He staggers up only with help, and when he looks across the ice the first thing his eyes fall on is Ovechkin, skating a slow loop and looking weirdly inscrutable, like he’s suddenly learned to guard his thoughts.

When the horn calls an end to play it’s with the Seabirds over the Monuments. It’s only by a goal, which isn’t good enough but he can handle it, mostly. The one thing is he’s sorta not looking forward to the handshake line. Ovechkin doesn’t seem so much a sore loser as a potentially ungraceful one, but Sidney’s at the back of their line and he’s near the center of his so he’s able to get a pretty good look at him the whole time.

His face is drawn up and still, but he smiles when Geno says something to him, pulls the other Russian into a little half arm hug that Geno returns with a thump on his back.

Sidney’s fists clench. He’s glad Geno has a friend, even if it is Ovechkin. He _is_.

“Good game,” he offers, and he shoves his hand at Ovechkin in a way that probably looks belligerent. He’s too tired to care. He’s not sorry that they won.

The situation feels so strange, there’s none of that easy overconfidence from the beginning of the game. Instead Ovechkin looks down at his hand, arches an eyebrow and looks up. “You won, with very sweet goal. Good game.”

Sidney’s standing there with his hand out like a total moron.

“Your goal was fantastic,” he says finally, through gritted teeth, as he waits for Alex to take his hand for a second and just move the line along already.

When he does his touch feels light for a split second before it gets tight. Painfully tight, and Sidney opens his mouth to say something about unsportsmanlike conduct, or maybe just complain about how bad his fingers ache, but then Ovechkin is pulling him in a little.

Okay, apparently he’s about to be hugged. Bro hugs aren’t exactly his thing, but they seem to be Ovechkin’s thing so whatever. He can tolerate being hugged for a few seconds even though they both are carrying the odor of a game — jock funk and about ten thousand unwashed sweat socks.

Sidney’s bracing himself to get crushed under the exuberance of an Ovechkin hug, but instead he ends up pulled in even closer with Ovechkin’s lips pressing against the high curve of his cheekbone.

And, okay. That’s not normal post game behavior, not by a long shot.

They’re dry and rough, hot from how hard he’s been breathing through them and Sidney’s skin is still cold from the ice, which is why he shivers a little bit as Ovechkin pulls away, shit eating grin fully in place. Sidney, however, is left speechless.

“It _was_ fantastic,” Alex agrees cheerfully, licking his lips and then all but throwing Sidney into the arms of Mike Green, who’s looking between them like they’re particularly fascinating exotic animals or something.

“Good game.”

“Um,” says Sidney.

He’s pretty much jacked for words the rest of the handshake line, and he’s sorta shaking which he thinks is a totally logical response when Ovechkin decided to _kiss_ him there on the _ice_.

“You guys saw that, right?” he demands the second they’re in the locker room.

The team looks supremely unimpressed, which seems like a radical under reaction to the opposing assistant captain _kissing_ him.

“That barely qualifies as a kiss,” Max tells him as they strip down, Sidney clutching his jersey to his chest like a heroine in some horrible gothic novel his mom loves. “It’s not like he threw you to the ice and ravished you. That was just to fuck with you, or something. Like a. Like a physical chirp or something.”

“He’s Russian, dude. He has that weird . . . _Russian_ thing going for him. No offense.” Flower nods at Geno.

“Is okay,” Geno assures him cheerfully.

“Geno and Nikita used to kiss after games all the time,” Jordy remarks sagely, and he does have a point with that. Quick smacks on the cheek that went totally unnoticed by the team and even the spectators after they’d seen them for a few games.

“But they were on the same _team_.”

“Ovie’s full of feelings, Sid. They spill over onto innocent bystanders. It’s not a big deal,” Marc points out.

Everyone nods in agreement with that and resumes stripping down and Sidney’s left standing there feeling even less reassured than he’d been.

Really, it hadn’t been a big deal. Objectively. The crowd had reacted a little bit, but most people probably missed it, mistook it for Ovechkin whispering to him or just fucking with his head.

But none of them had been there. None of them had seen that look in his eyes. It hadn’t looked even a little bit like a joke when he’d met his eyes. The way he had licked Sidney’s sweat off his lips. It had looked like a _challenge_. Like he was daring Sidney to . . . something.

Something.

“It wasn’t _about_ that,” he hisses, turning away. He’s digging a metaphorical grave. Maybe a literal one for his potential career, if this becomes too much of a deal. A deal that he’s making.

Changing out of his uniform is necessary right now; he has to be out of everything that in any way shape or form reminds him of the game, so he’s tearing through his gear like it has all personally offended him or something. Normally he’s rather meticulous about this; right now he’s flinging it all into his bag with barely controlled anger, his hands shaking with how bad they need to be doing _something_.

It would probably have been better if Ovechkin had punched him. Black eyes he knows what to do with. He’s not sure what the remedy for being kissed on the ice is. Probably not a cold steak, at any rate.

He doesn’t even want to go out with the rest of the team, but there’s this thing Geno does where he becomes an immovable wall who pretends he doesn’t speak enough English to understand Sidney’s protests. So he’s getting herded into Colby’s car, which makes it almost exactly the same as last week except Colby gets to babysit him this time, and hopefully Ovechkin won’t in any way shape or form be a part of the festivities.

They all end up at Max’s house, because his parents are big on keeping an eye on his stupidity, and the beer isn’t great or anything but there’s quite a bit of it. Some of the guys manage to sneak in some of the harder stuff and Sidney watches as Nealer tries to match Geno shot for shot until he falls over after like, two.

He’s sitting on the couch, watching them and laughing just a little bit at the absolute confusion on his face as Geno helps him up when Dutchy drops to the cushion next to him, flushed red and smiling brightly.

“Hey, amazing goals,” he mumbles, bumping Sidney’s shoulder. Then he giggles.

“Thanks for the assist,” he offers, smiling just a little bit and clinking his cup to Dutchy’s in an unaccustomed show of camaraderie. He’s pacing himself this time around, and without Ovechkin pouring vodka down his throat without permission it’s easier to stay sober. Just hold onto a can and sip sometimes, and no one else is paying much attention to if it’s his first or his fifth. It’s gone warm, and he makes a face.

“He played good,” Matt’s grinning. He fills in with “Ovie” when Sidney looks confused. “But he’s not you. We like you more, we really do.”

It’s the second time Sidney thanks him, but he doesn’t really have a whole lot else he can say in the circumstances. “Thanks?” He tries to keep the confusion out of his voice.

“I know you get j’lous of how _much_ we like Ovie, but we still like _you, too_. ‘S not like we don’t know we have the best Captain ever.” He leans into Sidney a little and then giggles again, like something he’s said is hilarious. Apparently he’s reached the handsy level of drunk. Sidney reminds himself to keep an eye out for Max and Flower.

“I’m not jealous.” And it’s true. Sidney might not be good at people, but he gets how he’s not exactly the easiest person to be around. Sometimes he sorta wishes he was likeable, but he’s basically not and Ovechkin completely is, and he gets that.

“Well, anyway.” Whatever is in the cup spills onto Sidney’s leg. “You’re our f’v’rite. That’s it.”

Sidney looks down at the wet stain on his jeans and sighs. “Thanks, Matt. Listen, you should probably sit here and.” He scans around. “And play Halo. Or. Well, play something.”

Dutchy blinks slowly at him, but he takes the controller Sidney’s offering him and only protests once that the TV isn’t even on.

Sidney intends to mop his pants off in the bathroom, which sounds like a good plan right until he’s pushing past what looks like the beginning of an orgy in the middle of the hallway. The party’s getting bigger by the hour, like Max is systematically text bombing every single person in their school, and by the time he makes it into the bathroom his pants are mostly dried. But he still smells like Molson, so he gets a washcloth and sets to work getting the smell out.

“Good for you,” Max says with a little grin as he slaps Sidney’s back, pushing past him towards the toilet. Flower following him back would seem weird, except for how it’s Max and Flower. “Forget all about Ovie.”

“What are you talking about?” He looks away while Max pisses, patting at his leg with the towel to dry it out.

“I know you think he’s into you, or whatever.” Max looks speculative and Sidney feels all his blood drain out of his face, leaving him even more weirdly pasty than ever. Luckily no one on his team could be accused of being observant.

“He’s been here like, a month, and he’s already hooked up with some girls Flower’s been working on for _years_ ,” he continues, shaking off. “The point is that you’re. You’re . . . _Sidney_.”

“. . . Right,” he says after too long a pause. “I didn’t think he was into me. I think he was trying to . . . to humiliate me, or something.”

“Maybe it was the Russian kiss of death. Do the Russians do that?” Flower looks speculative, pressing himself into Max’s back for a moment.

Max turns to look at him out of the corner of his eyes. His jaw line is kinda red and irritated looking. “Isn’t that the Mafia?”

“Fuck if I know. Point is, Sidney got laid.”

Sidney sighs, finishes mopping at his pants. “Yeah, by Dutchy’s drink. My pants smelled like beer.” And then he leaves, because he doesn’t really need any more speculation about Ovechkin or kissing or anything.

He ends up sitting back on the couch, watching Matt and Tanger completely fail at being sober enough to play a decent game of Mario Kart. He hadn’t believed scores even came that low.

||

Saturday’s paper is an explosion of Sidney and Ovechkin related feelings and he’s sorta glad now that his team got so drunk last night because no one is pestering him about it this morning.

Well, no one who isn’t directly related to him, at any rate. His grandparents call before he’s even out of bed, telling him about the reports from some of their neighbors and how impressed they were with how he’d handled himself. He’s polite and easy going, letting them gush at him, and then he hangs up and hears from his aunt. Then a couple cousins. He’s barely able to wolf down his breakfast between calls, and when he’s done he throws on his windpants and gets ready to head out on a run.

The house phone rings again, and he sighs, waits while Taylor answers, then calls him over.

“Sid, that reporter guy wants to talk to you!”

He bites his lips, considers going out the door and then turns back around because he doesn’t feel like having his mom call him halfway down the block to yell at him.

“This is Sidney,” he offers politely, taking the phone from Taylor and making a face back at her.

“Sid, it’s—”

“Kizler,” he fills in and tries to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “Hello.”

The next twenty minutes is filled with answering questions about the game, what it’s like to play the New Monuments, which is basically a sly way of asking how it feels to play Ovechkin. Kizler wisely doesn’t actually mention the name, though, and that’s a nice break from him. He’s the one who’s been foaming at the mouth to build up that rivalry from pretty much the beginning.

“Very good,” he offers after most of the questions are answered as neutrally and blandly as Sidney can manage. “Now for the hard one. Do you have a comment about what looked like a kiss between Alex Ovechkin and yourself in the handshake line?”

Sidney basically wants to die. Or set him on fire. He’s not sure if it’s Ovechkin or Kizler, either one deserves to burn.

“I. You’d have to ask Ovechkin about that. I was more of the ‘innocent bystander’ in that scenario.”

“But it did happen?”

He tries to remember everything he’s been told about answering questions he doesn’t like with something that isn’t actually an answer. “Ovechkin’s Russian. He’s from a different culture that I can’t claim to know much about, and they have different traditions.” Sidney bites his lip, waits for Kizler to say something more.

“Culture, eh?” he asks after a moment and Sidney shrugs, hoping the action is conveyed in his voice.

“Yeah, I guess.” He knows how to answer without providing an answer, but this isn’t purely about that. It’s because he sincerely has no idea, and he wouldn’t provide one if he did.

“Last question. Ovechkin has stated to me that he believes you might be some sort of hockey playing robot. Would you like to confirm or deny?”

Sidney gapes at the phone, making a face he’s glad no one can see. Kizler starts to laugh, and Sidney has to grit his teeth to keep from screaming.

“No comment,” he manages to grind out, almost sounding like he’s laughing back instead of fuming.

Luckily Kizler is used to him; he stops laughing after a few seconds and then hangs up with another round of “Thank you for your time.”

Sidney hangs up; pushes past Taylor, who’s eavesdropping in the hallway; and then takes off down the block before he can hear the phone ringing again. He’s thinking a lot, too much, and he needs to just do something.

Especially since he did nothing at all about being dragged into the kiss; he’d allowed it and hadn’t even resisted enough to qualify as a protest. He might have sighed a little bit at the contact, and he’d passively accepted the action as though he’d deserved it for beating Alex. All the things Sidney’s been thinking about since he’s had time to dwell on it.

He shouldn’t. He should just let it go except his body seems hyper aware of it almost constantly, and that’s insane.

 _Ovechkin_ he corrects himself inside his head as his legs stretch out, as he gets his wind going and runs for broke.

He leaves his cell phone on the doorstep where he can grab it before going back inside, and he just runs.

||

By the time Monday’s rolled around he’s pretty sure he’s losing his mind.

He gets weird nonchalance from his team the whole weekend. Even after the paper came out, even after the article about their play where Kizler hedged his bets and finally admitted they were different players and took what looked to Sidney like an inappropriate amount of glee over Ovechkin’s little tease. It doesn’t help that Ovechkin seems determined to turn it into the biggest joke on the planet, not just confirming that he pulled Sidney into a kiss but telling everyone who reads it that he did it because “I now have proof, Sidney not hockey playing robot. Not even Japanese make robots sweat, and Sid a sweaty guy!” A few lines later he pokes at him again, “Sidney need to get looser! He scare people away, if he like that!” while all they have from Sidney is a lot of hedging, a lot of “He’s a good player, he’s a challenge, but he’s also a different player” and “No comments” to fill the space.

He’s been waiting for the calls, bracing himself for them, but when his teammates return to the land of the living they just . . . don’t mention it.

And it isn’t the omission of “That was awkward and should never be discussed again” like that time he’d accidentally stumbled over Giroux making out with the Bulldogs’ assistant coach, Briére, in the visitor’s hallway. It’s just like it doesn’t deserve to be mentioned, except how Ovechkin had _kissed_ him, and apparently he’s the only one who finds that in the least bit inappropriate, or something. What would happen if they went around accosting their opponents after every game? Chirping is one thing, it’s a time honored tradition, but kissing? The whole concept of sportsmanship might as well go out the window.

Now, he knows he doesn’t have the most normal rules of social etiquette or something but dammit, that really sorta deserves some sort of comment from _someone_. It seems like. Besides Kizler, at any rate. And how wrong has his life become, that _Kizler_ was the one Sidney wanted to talk the incident out with? It just doesn’t make any sense, the whole thing makes so little sense, and he can’t stop worrying about it all weekend. He can’t get it out of his head, can’t focus on anything else.

He’s braced for English to be weird, for Ovechkin to do something strange that’ll embarrass him and make him feel horrible, but apparently Ovechkin’s revenge against him for winning is to be so painfully normal to Sidney that it’s disorienting. He’s actually in his own seat, and well. He’s been good at keeping to his own seat after the first week or so, but he expected some chirping of some sort after Friday. Maybe a set of wax lips, or a rose or just something stupid and embarrassing.

Instead of that, though, Ovechkin is almost ignoring him. Which is cool, Sidney’s always all about being left alone, except when it’s apparently part of some bizarre Russian head trip designed to keep him off his guard or something.

The back of Ovechkin’s hair curls over his neck, and Sidney’s watching and sorta wondering if it always did that when he turns around, pokes his shoulder. He has to dart his eyes away really quickly.

“We gonna be partners, yes?”

Sidney pulls back, blinks a little bit at him while his brain catches up. “Um. I. For what? No?”

“We have project, it is on the board.” He gestures up there and Sidney swallows, hard. Group papers on a topic of choice from Hamlet.

“I. No. I’m working with Jordy.”

“You are not working with Jordy. Jordy is working with Ashleigh,” Jordy replies with a huge grin, leaning towards the girl across the aisle from him. “Sorry, man. You get Ovie, Geno’s rules.”

Sidney turns back to him, to his stupid smile and dumb missing tooth and his eyes. Sometimes not knowing anyone who isn’t on the hockey team kinda sucks. “I. What?”

“Zhenya. He say ‘Sanja, you be friends with Sidney. Sidney is good guy,’ he say. ‘Weird, but in a good way’.”

“And then there were some vague threats if I let you cling to me, blah blah fast forward you get Ovechkin for this project,” Jordy adds unhelpfully.

“Why would Geno . . .”

“We both his friends, yes? Zhenya tell me ‘I don’t like that you fight with Sidney’. I try to tell him, is not fight. Is just Sidney being weird, he should know all about Weird Sidney, but he just make Very Serious Face and tell me we be friends.”

Sidney is going to send Geno and his weird Russian matchmaking right back to Russia, where he belongs. “Um. He. Okay?”

It doesn’t help that Ovechkin seems to mistake confusion for agreement. “Is good, we gonna practice Wednesday but then you come to my place, we work on deciding project. Zhenya say we work good together, wants us to be nice and play like puppies together.”

“That . . . actually almost makes sense.” He’s seen puppies play, all snapping teeth and squeaky growls and aggression masked under the fact that they’re littermates, and always will be littermates.

“Stop acting like being near me is such big inconvenience, Sidney. I try to be nice to you, I protect you from bullies and give you nice vodka and . . .”

“I don’t need you to force your friendship on me!”

“I not force anything! Being friendly not count as force!” Ovechkin insists, and Sidney meets his eyes as he settles around to look at him. It only makes sense to look at the guy he’s fighting with, he’s not about to get hit by another rear attack like the last time he’d gotten into a scrap on the ice. Which was the reason he’d lost that one, thank you very much.

“This is insane,” he starts, looking away because Ovechkin just has this _look_ , and Sidney’s not good at fighting even when he has enough justification to work up a pretty good righteous indignation if he wanted to work at it. “Let’s just. We’ll work on the paper. We’ll do it for Geno, and call it done.”

Ovechkin nods like it’s settled, and it kinda is because Byrns calls the class back to order and everyone around him has already found a partner if a quick glance around the classroom is anything to go by.

Suddenly he’s stuck being forced to spend time with Ovechkin, because it’s for a legitimate reason. And because Geno is apparently making him do it.

Sidney’s life is horrible.

“You know where we practice, yes?” Ovechkin asks as they pack up, the bell still echoing in their ears.

“Um, yeah?” It’s not like they have practice rinks or anything, they practice where they play. Sidney played them there Friday. Where Ovechkin kissed him.

He might need to work on getting over that.

“Practice over at six on Wednesday, you meet me at rink and give me ride home. We decide on project.”

“We could decide on the project at lunch.”

Ovechkin looks at him, grins and then shoves him. “You not avoid me, Sidney. We gonna be great friends, once you stop being weird.”

Sidney throws his bag over his shoulder. “Yeah, somehow I doubt that.”


	5. Chapter 5

On Wednesday every instinct in the planet is telling him to turn off his phone and conveniently forget that he has to meet Ovechkin. Maybe he should try and drag practice on, stay on the ice until it’s too late to make it there. Maybe he should pretend to be suddenly sick and need the night off to recover. Maybe he should pretend to have a previous engagement, except that would involve pretending to have a social life.

Maybe he should just drive his car into a tree.

Instead of doing the smart thing he’s outside the Monument’s rink at six, probably looking a little ghoulish as he peers through his windshield to see if he can spy Ovechkin before anyone else sees him hanging out here in their parking lot. He’s hoping Ovechkin is one of the first people out so that he doesn’t have to put up with too many Monuments staring at him.

At six fifteen he pulls out his Chem textbook and balances it on his steering wheel while he reads, glancing up periodically.

At six thirty he puts his book away. He looks at his dash, and there’s no need to hang out being a chump when clearly Ovechkin isn’t gonna show up. Sidney starts his car and is about ready to drive out of the parking lot when the doors finally open and the team spills out in a rancorous rush of noise and testosterone and teenage boys.

He can pick out Alex immediately. He’s the one surrounded by a crowd of his teammates, elbowing them and throwing his weight around as he balances his bag on his shoulder and leads the way into the parking lot like a fucking commercial.

Sidney sighs, puts his car into park near the edge of the lot and turns on his lights even though it’s too early to need them just yet. He can tell the moment Ovechkin sees him because it’s the moment his smile suddenly becomes visible from all the way across the lot, eyes falling on Sidney hunched over his steering wheel.

He waves a goodbye to his team, leaving them in what looks like the middle of a conversation to bound his way over to Sidney’s car. He has a stupid run, Sidney decides as he watches him make his way over the snowy ground.

“If you slip on black ice and die Gainan will hate me,” he points out as Ovechkin throws his shit into the back to pile on top of the assortment of old workbook pages and spare tape in the backseat. It makes some distressing crashing sounds and Sidney flinches, just a little.

“Gainan hate you anyway,” Ovechkin observes with a shrug, getting into the passenger seat. “Sorry I late; Coach wanna yell at us about losing some more. You not know about that.”

His teeth grind together so hard he hears his jaw pop. “We lose plenty.”

Wait, that’s not right. “It’s not my fault we’re a superior team.”

It’s too late. Ovechkin is cracking up as he throws himself into the passenger seat showing no more care than he had with his practice bag; the parts of his team that are still in the parking lot are staring and they totally see Sidney there because to a man they look ready to commit murder.

“Even competition in losing, you my kinda man Sidney Crosby!” Ovechkin chuckles, leaning over to punch his shoulder. “We get you next time, your second line bad at cutting off passing lanes.”

“None of your lines can win a face-off,” he grits back. “Where do I go from here?”

“My place farther away from this rink than yours. Left outta lot, then straight. I say when to turn.” He leans forward as Sidney takes a careful left into traffic, beginning to mess with his heat settings. “Is too hot in here, make you sleepy and lazy.”

His teeth grind.

“Too much heater is bad for you, make you cold when you go outside is what my mom says. Then you get sick. There, is better now.” He has the air conditioner blasting even though the temperature is on heat. “Okay, right lane. Turn in two blocks.”

Sidney merges. His jaw aches.

“Why so quiet, you not have iPod? Radio? Here, I turn it on. Canada has no good music stations, but maybe there is something not bad. I gonna check, okay?” He erases Sidney’s presets, he can tell that from the way the clock blinks, then sets about reprogramming his radio to what sounds like every station that caters to hyperactive elves with a bass complex.

“Do you ever shut up?” he demands, right as Ovechkin yells “Right here!” and he jerks the wheel sideways with a squeak of tires.

“If I shut up you not get directions.” Ovechkin looks irrationally offended for the guy who just reprogrammed Sidney’s car for his own convenience.

“You’ll shut up when you’re dead. Fabulous.” He might be smiling to himself just a tiny bit; there’s a weird something about his perpetual enthusiasm that might look a little charming. If he squints.

“Okay, you gonna go left here, across bridge and then right at second street. Is blue house on corner. My host parents out for evening, we get house to ourselves.”

“Are they ever home?” he wonders aloud, taking the left.

“Not much. Is nice, though. A little lonely, but they have dog so is not so bad. Zhenya come over once. Now you invited, so you can visit too.”

“I’m not . . .” the dropping in sort. He can’t finish that sentence because Ovechkin is busy looking crushed at him. “Always good at people.”

“I know, you a hard man Sidney Crosby. But is okay, I like you anyway!”

Suddenly it makes all the sense in the world to blurt out “Why did you kiss me?”

Ovechkin blinks at him, weird and blue and confused. “Was game, Sidney. You win game, I respect that. Not a big deal.”

Right. Because he always kisses people he respects. He’s about ready to die of embarrassment or will himself towards spontaneous combustion but then there’s a blue house looming there at the other end of the block. It’s the first time he’s seen it in daylight, without it being overwhelmed with cars and noise and bodies. He feels weirdly underdressed. “That’s,” he begins then has to swallow. “A nice house.”

“Greg some sort of business lawyer, Kristen is Public Relations something. Have good vodka, I know.”

“. . . They’re not supposed to be letting you drink their vodka.”

Ovechkin shrugs. “Is no big deal. In Russia . . .”

“You’re not in Russia, you’re in Canada, and . . .”

“I still 18, Sid.” He smiles lopsided at him, and Sidney squints at him sideways. That makes more sense than just a really hairy sixteen year old. Sorta.

“Oh,” he says finally, pulling into the driveway. “Okay.”

Ovechkin is grinning at him, throws open his door and jumps out to grab his bag. Sidney’s fingers creak on the steering wheel, he’s staring straight ahead at the house and bracing himself when Ovechkin shoves his face against his window, making him jump.

“Get a move on, Sid! We have delivery, then do work. You hungry?” He steps back so Sidney can get out of the car. “What I saying? You hockey player, of course you hungry!”

Sidney follows him up, lets him get the door open and field a very excited Labrador nose being shoved into his crotch.

“This Meke,” he offers, letting the dog loose to say hello to Sidney. “She very friendly, like hockey players. We gonna order pizza, okay? They leave me money for that.” He drops his bags right in the doorway for Sidney to stumble over, bounding towards the phone in the hallway where the money and phone number are already set out and waiting for him.

Sidney catches himself on Meke’s back as she pants happily at him, licking at his hand. The stumble seems to not even register in her mind. “Um, Coach has really specific guidelines for me; do you have like salad, or chicken, or anything?”

Ovechkin pauses in ordering the pizza, blinks at him. “Yeah, extra cheese,” he deadpans. “Better put sausage on, too. Lots.”

“Hey!” he hisses, voice softly polite as Ovechkin writes down the total and thanks them. “I’m not supposed to eat carbs, they slow my metabolism down and . . .”

“You young guy, Sid.” Ovechkin turns slowly, then he gives Sidney what is a very clear once over, eyes scanning his body and causing an uncomfortable line of heat to race down Sidney’s spine. He crosses his arms over his chest in defense. “Very fit.”

Sidney shifts, feels an uncomfortable nerve tweaking in his belly. “Like what you see?” he asks with a bravado he doesn’t feel.

“Yes.” Alex says it simply, a fact.

He’s not rising to that bait. He’s not. “I’m trying to take my career _seriously_. . .”

Ovechkin leans against the wall, arms crossed and mimicking Sidney. “You know what brother told me?”

 _I don’t_ care _,_ is what he goes to say, but Ovechkin barrels on.

“My career now? Be teenager. Yes, hockey, but hockey is also for later. Enjoy being young, Sidney. Always have hockey, not always be kid. When last time you not act like you were thirty, eh?”

He can feel his lips lifting into a snarl. “I’m not _thirty_ . . .”

Ovechkin waves him off, making grand gestures in the air. “Eh, eh. What we need to do is get you out, Sidney. Have you drink and dance and have some fun! Yes, we should get you to club, emergency injection of fun to save your heart!”

Sidney stalks past him, into the living room where he throws his bag down onto the floor and flops dramatically onto the sofa, arms crossed over his chest, stomping his feet onto the floor and doing his best to make it perfectly clear he doesn’t want to be here and that he hates his life. “Let’s just work on this project, okay?”

“No, it be fun, promise!” Ovechkin looks like something has actually caught in his brain and stuck, and Sidney sighs because he knows, just _knows_ that this in no way is going to bode well for him. He never gets that look on his face for anything _reasonable_ , like maybe working on this damned English paper.

“You get girlfriend, we go out . . .”

Sidney’s hand goes up like he’s batting the suggestion out of the air. “No girlfriend, sorry. Paper, Alex. We’re graded on that, and bad grades mean no hockey.”

Ovechkin grins, mimics his swatting gesture like he’s doing something clever. Sometimes he wonders the story behind that missing tooth, wonders if Ovechkin really thinks it makes him look as dashing as he seems to think it does. Doesn’t he wear a full face guard? That’s, like, contractually obligated here. “Ah, _puck_ buddy.”

He is not going there. “No, sorry. Listen, can we please get back to this before we lose the chance to get it in at full credit?” He’s never gotten ¾ credit in his life, and if Ovechkin holds him back with this he’s gonna kill himself. And if it keeps him from scholarship then he’s going to _come back from the dead_ , because Ovechkin deserves to share his fate.

“No.”

“You. _What_? _No_?”

Alex throws himself down onto the floor in front of Sidney with a melodramatic sigh that might be mocking him a little bit, and then he sits on top of Sidney’s feet, wrapping Sidney’s ankles with his legs.

“Hey! I. Those’re my _feet_! Get _off_ of me!” He wriggles around, glaring. “Seriously. This isn’t funny. We have work to do.”

The doorbell rings right as he starts seriously pondering murdering the older boy; he darts his head up with an expression of naked relief. “ _Food_!”

Sidney has a bit of a head start in using the couch as a brace to push off of, Alex has to scramble to his feet and that loses him precious seconds as Sidney skids over the hardwood, socked feet sliding over the polish as he races him for the door, nearly taking out that useless hall table every home in the world seems to have.

He yanks the door open first. The pizza guy is a few years older than them, and it’s clear he recognizes Sidney from the subtle widening of his eyes. It’s also clear he’d never expected to see the two of them together because he double takes between them as Alex slams into his back a few seconds later, making him gasp out a little sound of shock.

“24.60,” he says and Sidney has to step back, blushing, as Ovechkin scrambles the bills out and hands them to the guy, telling him to keep the change. It’s a pretty generous tip.

“Thanks. And, uh. Great game on Friday. Both you guys played brilliant.”

Sidney smiles at him, a little tight at the corner, then takes Ovechkin’s arm before he can declare the poor pizza guy their new best friend and force him to come in and hang out with them or something.

It’s not until they’re munching on their pizzas in delighted silence — it’s a treat Sidney really doesn’t allow himself often, and this stuff tastes like heaven — that he realizes that’s sorta what they’re doing. Yeah, homework happened and is gonna happen again after they eat, but more than anything they’re just hanging out. It’s a weird revelation to have, it seems both painfully obvious and yet _not_ , because he’s Sidney and normal things aren’t always obvious to him.

“So,” he begins once the edge of hunger has worn off and they’re eating like humans and not dingoes. They’ve traded places, Alex on the sofa with the pizza next to him and Sidney on the floor next to his legs. He pulls his book into his lap, stretching out his legs.

“Right, we do project. What you think?”

Sidney starts to pull his laptop out, hunched over as he rummages through his stuff in his pack trying not to sigh with victory. “Everything’s been done to death with Hamlet, I figure we pick any topic and there’ll be a million resources out there. I was thinking maybe something about the dawning of moral implications present in revenge dramas, why Shakespeare chose to make his great revenge drama a tragedy when that wasn’t the style for Elizabethan theatre, more a Greek thing . . .” He checks to see if Ovechkin is getting any of this and discovers him with a glazed look on his face. “You have no idea what I’m talking about.”

“Something about how revenge bad, and possibly also about movie theaters?”

His _life_ is unencumbered tragedy. “Why are you in this class again?”

“Russian councilor say it look good on transcripts, let draft board know I serious about learning new hard things.” He’s glaring at Sidney, it’s a look he’s not used to seeing and it’s not quite natural. Ovechkin has always struck him, even in defeat, as terminally good natured. “Also, I not dumb. You just talk fast, use fancy words.”

“Why would Shakespeare make a play about revenge be a tragedy?”

Meke nuzzles against Ovechkin’s thigh and he reaches out to scratch over her ears. She closes her eyes and leans into him with a sigh. “Revenge always tragedy. Feelings usually tragedy. You never read Crime and Punishment?”

He narrows his eyes, still doubled over to reach into his pack. “No, and neither have you.”

“Fair enough,” he concedes after a few seconds. “Still, is good point.”

Sidney straightens up and bites his lip, just a little. “Maybe. Maybe we can use that. Sorta. Without either of us needing to read Crime and Punishment, because.” He shudders.

Ovechkin looks unreasonably offended. “What, Sidney Crosby not like reading Russian books?”

“Not if it’s not about hockey,” he replies with a snort. “Not unless I have to.”

“Too few books about hockey, yes,” the other boy agrees, smiling at him. “I think it not mentioned even _once_.”

Sidney then surprises himself by laughing, honest to God _cracking up_ at the serious, earnest look on Ovechkin’s face as he bemoans the lack of decent hockey references in Russian literature. Once Ovechkin gets him going he keeps at it, hamming it up with huge eyes and tragic hand gestures, clutching his fists to his chest like some sort of gothic heroine and all but swooning at the idea of Sidney not getting as many books about hockey as he would like.

“Okay, okay, shut up.” He punches Ovechkin, harder than he has to but lighter than he would like, shoving at him with his shoulder. “We have to figure how we want to do this, where we’re gonna find our references in the text . . .”

He’s powering on his laptop when Ovechkin starts poking at him with his foot, arch rubbing up and down Sidney’s bicep with a light, tickling pressure.

He looks up over his shoulder irritably. There’s nowhere else he can move to if he wants to stay in the same room. “Your foot is gross, stop poking me.”

For once Ovechkin looks a little lost for words, an expression of puzzlement slowly clouding his features. They look at each other for what feels like several awkward minutes and is probably only a few seconds, Sidney waiting expectantly for him to get on with whatever it was that he was pestering him for. It’s Ovechkin who breaks the standoff; his eyes dart away to fall on the pizza and he grabs a slice to offer it to Sidney. His eyes are really blue and there’s this thing he does that looks like he thinks Sidney is gonna shoot him down but he has to offer him the pizza anyway, because that’s how he is.

Sidney sighs and takes the pizza, taking a few bites before setting it aside.

“We need to decide why this is an important shift, and start looking for evidence in the text that proves the shift is happening.” Ovechkin’s crowding him a little, leg pressed against Sidney’s side and he sighs, trying to ignore the warm line of it.

“You have sauce.” Ovechkin gestures helpfully in the general direction of somewhere between Sidney’s hair and his crotch.

Sidney reaches a hand up, unsure where in that range he’s supposed to look for it. “Um.”

“Here, I get it.” Ovechkin is reaching for him, and before Sidney can get away his fingers trap Sidney’s chin between thumb and forefinger. His thumb swipes uselessly over his lip, not even hard enough to remove anything. It just skims the skin, lingers for a second with a light press on his lower lip, pulling his mouth partially open, while he stares at him with what can only be called a creepily intense look, like he’s waiting for the puck to drop on a faceoff. Sidney pulls away, scrubbing at his face with the back of his hand.

“Better?” He turns back to look at him, and Ovechkin has this weird, exasperated look on his face.

“Yes,” he decides. “Here, you should sit with me on couch, is easier this way.”

They’d originally both been on the sofa except Ovechkin kept crowding him, pushing up against his side and practically crawling into his lap until Sidney got the hint and moved onto the floor so he could have as much of the sofa as he wanted. It’s a big sofa, he’s not sure why he was being so pushy but whatever.

“Yeah, you should have thought of that before you crowded me off. I’m comfy here, now.” He types on his laptop, punching the keys a little furiously. It’s really not comfortable at all, but damned if he’ll go back to the couch just so Ovechkin can crowd him off the edge again. He’d been almost straddling the armrest before he’d given up. “Okay, I think I found a couple websites that’ll give us a few starting points. Here, you look up the sections of the book.” He shoves his book in Ovechkin’s general direction behind him. He doesn’t trust him to have kept his own book in one piece in the intervening weeks.

“Well, everyone get depressed and then _die_ , is probably a good starting point.” He sounds sulky.

Sidney sighs, waves his book back towards him without turning. “Yeah, well find me act and verse and that’s a start.”

“Not need act and verse. Is obvious. Is a _tragedy_ , there in title.” Ovechkin’s eyes are huge and sad and he looks like he might be prone to start crying or something until he smiles crookedly. “Everything is a tragedy.”

Sidney snorts and goes back to his laptop, momentarily appeased. Alex pulls out his iPod like a peace offering, handing it to Sidney who selects some tracks that at least are spelled in English instead of Cyrillic and hits play.

“Trust you pick most boring Russian club music ever,” Ovechkin chides softly as the most god awful, hyperactive bass beat he’s ever heard starts accosting his eardrums. Meke gets up and finds someplace else to be. If this is the most boring . . .

He lets it go. Unimportant. If they fight then they’re not working, and Sidney wants to get this paper researched.

They lapse into silence then, the music providing a heavy bass undertone to their studying. They’re not talking much but Sidney’s trusting Alex to be on the same page as him and so far he hasn’t disappointed him. He seems like he’d be a massive screw up, as unfocused and disjointed as Sidney’s observed him to be, but his focus works on something other than hockey for once and he buckles down and fills up nearly as many pages as Sidney. After a while they both switch to other classes and they don’t discuss them or anything but they get it done with companionable silence.

After a couple hours Ovechkin stretches out, leg rubbing against Sidney’s side again. “Okay, I not handle any more homework.”

Sidney looks at the clock and bites his lip. He’s pretty late to be getting home and his mom might be calling fairly soon to make sure he’s okay if he doesn’t head home now. “I. Yeah, I should go. I have chores and Mom worries if I’m not home.”

Ovechkin looks at the clock with a fair amount of skepticism. “You not get out much.”

He blushes. “Shut up. Not all of us are Mr. Hockey Star Playboy with no rules.”

He bursts into laughter as Sidney packs his things back into his pack, tossing the highlighter that was tucked behind his ear in last. “Okay, so we’re gonna have to find a few times to get together to do a little more, but we made a lot of progress with it.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, pushing to his feet with an expression on his face that looks a little bit like disappointment or something. “We gonna have to do again.”

Sidney throws his pack over his shoulder, hunts down his shoes and carries them to the door. Ovechkin follows him for some reason, it feels awkward but he’s not gonna mention it when technically it’s his house. Or, well. His host’s house, and he’s allowed to do what he wants in it.

He shoves his feet into his shoes, tying up the laces. “Thanks. This was. Nice.” It’s true, he realizes as he says it. He’s never gonna like, join the Ovechkin fan club that seems to have sprung up in town but he’s sorta okay with spending time with him a little. Mostly.

He can still hear Alex’s horrible music coming from the stereo in his living room when he straightens up, offers him a tight little smile and goes to leave except Alex is suddenly in his space, hand heavy on his shoulder and all but forcing Sidney to move backwards towards the wall because he has nowhere else to escape _to_.

“You hard man, Sidney Crosby,” Ovechkin repeats for the second time tonight and he’s no closer to understanding what he means by that than he was the first time he’d said it.

“I gotta. Um. You’re crowding me,” he mumbles, his tongue feeling as useful as cotton in his mouth.

Probably, in some universe somewhere, it makes total sense that Alex lean down and kiss him, hand braced against his shoulder. Some universe, but not really this one. Not after he kissed Sidney on the ice and made his weekend an unmitigated disaster wondering _what it meant_ only for Ovechkin to tell him it meant nothing at all. In this universe, where that actually happened, it makes no sense at all to be pinned against a wall with Alex’s lips on his and he goes rigid and still against him the moment it registers what’s happening.

He’s not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that Ovechkin utterly fails to notice his discomfort. Probably bad, because he keeps kissing him like it doesn’t matter that Sidney’s freaking out, like he’s gonna keep kissing him no matter what.

But also, he kisses like he wants to continue. And it's _really, really good_.

Alex pulls away with a wet sound to trail his lips down Sidney’s throat. His hand rests low on his hip, thumb sweeping over his hipbone. “I lied. I kissed you cause you look good on ice.”

“Um,” is the most coherent thing he can think of as wet heat traces his pulse.

Fingers tangle in his hair, breaking through the gel that’s the only thing that keeps his curls from taking over the world, cradling the back of his head and pulling him in for another kiss.

On the ice he doesn’t like to fight. He knows he’s not good at it — he’s not an idiot — but he also knows that sometimes he _has to_ , that sometimes playing the game he loves means doing things he hates. Certain actions call for equal reaction, responses laid out in stone a long time before he came along to participate in them.

That’s a horrible comparison to make because he hasn’t been kissing Alex enough to know if he hates it or not, but there’s a certain similarity to fighting. The way his pulse hammers against his throat, the way there’s something weirdly disconnected in his body as he responds. And then there’s the way Alex does something and he has to respond — a nip at his lip, tongue swiping in a demand and Sidney opens up and lets him in because he’s pretty sure that’s how it’s done.

Not like he’s actually had any, like, real world experience with this. But he understands theory.

He’s trying to breathe through his nose as Alex tangles their tongues together, a wet slide he’s not ready for but a challenge he can’t ignore because even here, even vulnerable and backed up against a wall in Alex’s house there’s still the burn of rivalry between them, a tease like _Let’s see what you got_ growled in his ear even though they haven’t broken apart enough for that to have actually been voiced.

“I thought you never catch on,” Ovechkin teases into his ear, “never met someone like you, didn’t even catch on to _pizza sauce trick_.” Like somehow Sidney was supposed to know that having his thumb all but shoved into his mouth in the quest for an apparently imaginary smear of pizza sauce was some sort of come on, and . . .

Oh.

Okay, in _retrospect_.

He gasps as Alex’s teeth close on his earlobe, tug gently with just a hint of pressure and something like arousal uncoils and flares up inside his belly, so sudden and unexpected it makes him dizzy and a little weak.

“Ovech —,” he starts, and he’s pretty sure he’s about to question the current goings on, so maybe it’s a good thing that Ovechkin stops him, kisses the next words out of his mouth. Laps his words right out of him, tongue swirling in his mouth until there’s nowhere to hide anything there. Sidney’s pretty sure he’s not kissing well or anything, the best he can sorta do is hang on and let Ovechkin do whatever it is that he’s doing and learn from it as best he can while his brain is acting like all it wants to do is surrender control to other parts of his body.

He’s thinking that would be a bad idea, though. Especially with Alex mumbling things in a language that almost certainly isn’t English, even with his questionable accent, into his ear like a series of promises. He should probably not lose his head, but Alex’s hands release his arms and he steps back, blue eyes almost black and breathing through his mouth and it's overwhelming.

He really needs to get home. “I need . . .”

“ _Sidney_.” It sounds like a plea. A challenge he can’t back down from, he has to see if he can make Alex's voice do that again.

So this time he steps into Alex’s space, fingers tangling into the shaggy hair and accepting the challenge.

It’s not great. He’s so busy thinking, remembering what Alex did that felt so natural and trying to replicate it that it feels about as clinical and weird as a checklist. He knows he’s not doing very good but Alex just sorta tilts his head, opens to him and allows him to explore in a way that just feels _strange_.

Like, okay. It shouldn’t be strange, but that’s his _tongue_ in Ovechkin’s _mouth_ , and he can’t seem to stop himself from probing at the place where a tooth should be but isn’t. It’s a weird sort of fascination he has with it, and Alex growls and rumbles at that, at the way Sidney’s sorta teasing that space with his tongue. He wonders if he even notices the loss or if it’s been gone so long it’s not something he explores with his own tongue anymore. Every time Sidney chips a tooth he can’t leave it alone for months afterwards.

Sidney is Sidney, and he’ll always be that way. He’s used to spending most of his time being torn between mildly bemused and outright annoyed with all the stupid, unnecessary things his hormones keep trying to make him do. He’s good at ignoring them, pushing them to the side as unimportant because they’re not gonna help him play hockey or anything. But then there’s Alex, and whatever he’s doing has Sidney’s hormones at a fevered pitch, has them swimming so thick in his veins that he can only drown under them.

Sidney's fingers curl tighter into his biceps and Alex makes a sound into his mouth and pulls away, shaking his head.

“Not so hard, not need to bruise yet. Also, lick less. Is like kissing puppy.”

Sidney turns an impressive shade of red.

“No, is okay. Here.” Alex’s hand on the back of his head tilts him just a little, and he shows Sidney what he likes with a series of quick, economical movements of lips and teeth. Sidney mimics him, he can learn things pretty quick when he puts his mind to it, and before long he’s got enough practical knowledge down that he doesn’t have to think about it so much. It’s not so different from learning a new trick on the ice, really.

He’s not sure how long they stand there, Alex with his hand under the edge of Sidney's shirt and palm resting against the skin of his lower back, pulling him in closer as he nips and sucks over his jaw.

“Don’t leave bruises,” Sidney warns even as he tilts his head to give him access.

“Right. Because I stupid, think hickey good plan,” Alex gripes against his throat and Sidney swats his head.

“Well, Jesus. What was I supposed to think?” Right now pretty much the only thing keeping him here is the challenge of Ovechkin, the way he’ll do something that makes heat flare painfully in Sidney’s belly and then he has to find a way to evoke the same reaction in Alex. He’s also half hard, though, so maybe it’s not so much bad as it is just _weird_.

“Stop talking. Stop thinking. Is like nice play on ice; you don’t think, you just go with it.”

“That’s what _you_ . . .”

“We should kiss more.” And then Ovechkin does something with his tongue to Sidney’s pulse that he has no hope of imitating because it feels like kind of an advanced move. It has Sidney short circuiting, at any rate, and it’s not until he’s blind that he realizes Ovechkin has used this as an excuse to peel his shirt off of him. He blinks when he’s face to face with Ovechkin again, leaning forward into his touch with a confused sound as callused hands slide up and down his side.

He’s not particularly smooth at getting Alex’s shirt off, it catches on his arms and it’s weird to work it from this angle. It’s more complicated than he expected, getting another person’s shirt off, and he’s musing over that when Alex pulls him in and starts kissing him more.

“We, um.” He pulls away, darting his eyes. Probably Ovechkin’s host parents wouldn’t be into finding two half naked hockey phenoms making out in their hallway. “Probably should stop. I mean. Um.”

Or, Alex can haul him bodily towards the stairs. That works, too.

Probably at some point he should also mention how he’s never done this before like, ever, but somehow he gets the feeling that doesn’t really matter to Ovechkin right now, so it’s probably a good thing that his body is telling him that, yeah, it’s totally into the idea of getting laid, _finally_. Apparently it’s also into being laid by Ovechkin, but that might just be due to desperation or something. Then Alex pauses at the top of the stairs, pulls him into another kiss like he can’t stand not touching Sidney for that long and no, it’s that he’s actually into Ovechkin.

That's, uh. That's a thing he's just found out.

Ovechkin's bedroom is mercifully close to the top of the stairs; the second floor hallway is only slightly preferable to the entry way as a place to keep doing . . . whatever it is that they’re doing. He’s pretty sure they would have done something against the wall if it had been any further away.

He’s tossed to the bed pretty unceremoniously, and he opens his mouth to protest but then Alex is there, kissing him wet and messy and sloppy. It’s enthusiastic and he can almost taste the excitement in Alex’s mouth when he licks in. It has his head swimming a little. When Ovechkin’s hands wander down to his belt he makes a little sound, and it’s another challenge Sidney can’t exactly back down from when Ovechkin starts tugging at his belt and zipper, making a low sound like desperation. So he arches his hips when Alex starts trying to work his pants down one handed, the other tangled in Sidney's hair. He wiggles and helps Alex get them off of him because he’s not gonna back down now.

This is a horrible, horrible idea. Objectively he's aware of that, but his body ignores his brain as being unimportant and gets totally on board with the idea of being naked with Alex. Maybe the guys are right, maybe he needs to get laid a lot more, or possibly just _at all_ , and then his stupid body wouldn’t be so excited about Alex Bloody Ovechkin.

“Hey, are those . . .” His eyes fall on trophies, medals, awards that Alex has chosen to carry halfway around the world with him, fingers curled into Ovechkin’s hair as he nips down his throat.

Alex pushes himself up, braced above him. “Stop talking. Or. ‘Ey.” His grin is still as stupid as ever, but sorta endearing in that it seems to promise good things. “Give you something better to do than talk.”

Sidney almost starts panicking, but it’s Alex who shifts, who licks at his throat one last time and maybe that’s the trick of the licking. Not so much wet as just doing it sorta dry, and —

His brain finally gives up its nervous fight to stay in charge as Alex tugs his pants and boxers down with a growl, huffs a hot breath over his dick and it reminds him that there are more important things in the universe than hockey.

Clearly he’s out of his mind, because he’s here with _Ovechkin_ and also because there’s nothing more important than —

Alex’s tongue. Wow, okay. It’s slick, soft but a little rough in the right ways as he licks over him experimentally, expression thoughtful, like he’s trying his dick on for size before he commits or something. Like Sidney’s a new brand of skates he’s been asked to try out and give an opinion on.

Sidney’s clearly not an expert on societal norms but he’s pretty sure that idea wouldn’t be hot for other people, but for whatever reason it works for him. Especially when he apparently meets Alex’s standards or something and he takes him in, sucking lightly in a way that has his toes curling up inside his sneakers and wishing he was actually naked so he could throw his leg over Alexm or something. He wants him _closer_. Sidney can’t bite down the groan that starts in his chest and spills out, the one that makes his voice sound ten times deeper and a little wrecked.

Even with his mouth otherwise occupied Ovechkin isn’t quiet either, though. He’s making little sounds as he presses a hand to Sidney’s hip, keeping him from making the tiny, half desperate thrusting motions he’d been reflexively doing. Alex keeps making little sounds as he works him, mouth hot and full and Sidney’s dead silent, biting his fist so he won’t make embarrassing sounds so in some part of the universe things are the way they’re supposed to be, he guesses, threading his fingers into Alex’s hair and just letting them rest there, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. His hair feels nice, it’s sorta softer than Sidney’s, finer and not prone to curl and he likes that. It feels good in his hands. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do, tugging seems rude but Alex has clearly got some sort of experience with blowjobs when he sucks just right, moves his tongue in a way that has little stars darting at the corner of his vision and it’s really hard not to just hang on and beg for more. He’s never had a blowjob before, but he’s pretty sure that this is a good one, it’s making him tremble and shake and shake apart under the other boy’s attention.

“Ovech—” he manages, voice a high whine, and the older boy sorta smirks up at him, lips stretched tight around his dick as he moves against the mattress with minute jerks and “ _Jesus_.”

Something about that spurs Ovechkin to work faster, jacking at Sidney in rhythm and he has to try really hard not to embarrass himself by moving or making too much noise or, y’know, coming.

He doesn’t want to know how Alex got good at this. It’s easier to imagine that he’s not only some sort of hockey prodigy, even though Sidney’s never heard of a sex savant.

His fingers must tighten, or his voice kicks up, or something, because Alex works him harder, the rhythm almost punishing as he somehow takes him a little bit deeper and Sidney can only warn him with a choked off sound and fingers tightening in his hair. Alex pulls off at the last possible second, jacks him while he presses his lips to Sidney’s and Sidney’s completely gone, shaking apart under him.

It takes him a few seconds to recover, long enough that Alex has pulled away and is stroking himself while looking at Sidney sprawled out across his bed with an intense expression on his face.

“Here, I . . .” The angle is weird and he’s probably not actually good at it. And why doesn’t it surprise him to know that Ovechkin freeballs?

It’s not romantic or anything at all, but neither one of them have turned into teenage girl stereotypes in a vampire novel in the past few minutes so it’s probably not all that important. He’s not sure what Ovechkin likes so it might be too hard or not hard enough, and also he’s never done it before and everything’s sorta happening on the fly, remembered sensations but at awkward angles where his wrist feels a little funny and his grip is off. But he jacks him off with Alex pressing his face into his neck, making low and grumbling sounds like a very contented wild animal. He figures it’s probably good when Alex comes in his hand with a shout, hips bucking hard into his fist.

There’re splashes of come on his hand and chest and belly and Alex falls over on top of him like he took a blindside hit, boneless and heavy and hot.

“You’re heavy,” Sidney mumbles after a split second of that, wiping his hand on the sheets absently. “Get off.”

“Did that,” Ovechkin teases, catching his lips. He’s kissing leisurely, like he thinks maybe he has all night to do this, but Sidney’s sweaty and sticky and physical contact isn’t helping.

“I should.” He shoves at his shoulder a little, turning his head away. “I need to go.”

It is not at all charming when Alex pouts at him, pulls him in for a kiss that Sidney breaks really quickly.

“I, no. I gotta get home, and your hosts wouldn’t like . . .”

Ovechkin flops back on the bed, arm over his eyes. Sidney takes that as permission to get up, start pulling his clothes on as fast as his hands will let him. He smells like sweat and Ovechkin, deep into his pores, it’s like cologne that blossoms each time he moves. It’s kinda gross at this point.

His shirt is still in the hall, and he almost dies except he’s not gonna give Ovechkin the chance to outlive him. He makes for the door and Alex throws on boxers, follows him into the hallway and pins him against the wall again, kissing him while Sidney kisses back absently.

“We do this again,” Alex whispers like nothing so much as a demand, pushing his hand into Sidney’s hair and either wrecking or smoothing it. “See you tomorrow, Sid.”

He opens his mouth to correct him, but apparently they had sex so maybe he should just let Ovechkin call him Sid. He’s not sure what the protocol is regarding nicknames and people you had sex with. “Yeah. Um. Tomorrow, good. Sounds. Yeah,” like he’s the one that doesn’t speak English very well. And then he gets out of the house as fast as he can.

It’s good for him that the endorphins keep him calm and only distantly tempted to drive into a tree. They only wear off when he’s about a kilometer from home. It’s a kilometer he can drive by heart, and also free from cliffs, so he doesn’t try too hard to fight the shaking fit that follows him all the way inside, through the living room where he doesn’t linger except to offer a cursory “I’m really tired, going to bed” to his parents as he drags his tense, trembling body up the stairs.

He surprises himself by actually falling asleep really quickly. If he dreams he doesn’t remember them.


	6. Chapter 6

If Sidney was expecting Ovechkin to be anything other than Ovechkin the next morning he’s sorely mistaken. He comes in to class expecting there to be some sort of blaring billboard above his head that everyone can read, one that says exactly what happened and possibly also offers helpful diagrams for easy reference, but instead all he sees is the classroom studiously ignoring his presence which is just like always. Jordy’s talking to Ashleigh and he doesn’t even try to break away to say anything judgmental, and Ovechkin remains seated and only vaguely waggles his eyebrows at Sidney. It’s less teasing than he’s done before, but no more than he’s been doing lately, and the normalcy of it seems completely wrong for the situation.

Then again, listening to Flower and Talbot talk, Ovechkin has already hooked up with most of the student body and he’s yet to be weird and awkward with _anyone_ that Sidney’s seen, so the nervous twisting tension in his belly when he sees Ovechkin probably only means that Sidney is the one who should be concerned with spilling the beans.

Whatever this is. He’s never done sex before, let alone casual sex, and he can’t exactly ask Dan for coaching like he normally would. So he just tries to act as normally as he can, making a face and shoving past Alex, slipping into his seat and getting his things out while his hands tremble so hard he can barely manage it without dropping them onto the floor.

“I find things on internet for paper,” Ovechkin begins, turning around. “I e-mail to you, can look over and decide if it looks good.”

“Um, yeah.” Right. They were working on a paper together. A paper they still have to finish, requiring them to spend more time together. His life is horrible.

“You sleep good?”

His head snaps up and yeah, Ovechkin’s grinning at him like he’s just said the most hilarious thing in the history of all hilarious things.

“It was fine,” he decides after a moment of silent thought. Not like they can talk about this in class or anything. Alex smiles at him and goes to say something, but then Byrns starts the class and Sidney can escape from his tragedy to one where at least all the tragic things are happening to other people who aren’t him, for once.

Byrns hands out their syllabus for the paper, noting due dates for rough drafts and references and requirements for formatting and turning it in, then turns them loose on their papers. Most the kids huddle up, but Sidney just huddles, even when Alex drags his chair over and starts to tell him all about the sites he found last night.

He listens a little but mostly doodles in his notebook, which is great except Alex cuts off mid-sentence to grab his pen, fixing his play diagram with a few confident strokes.

“No wonder passing lanes so easy,” he critiques, and Sidney bristles. Last he checked Ovechkin still plays for the Monuments, he has no room to talk.

They really should be working on their paper or something, but judging by the sound level no one else is so the odds of getting busted or punished are pretty low. “Shut up, it’d work.”

“Is so _safe_ , Sidney. Not always play safe hockey, gotta mix it up and be unpredictable. Like, here.” He waves Sidney’s pen around, the pen he _stole_ , before half leaning over his shoulder to start doodling next to Sidney’s original drawing. He feels warm against his side, and he smells like something clean and musky that has Sidney’s belly drawing up in tight, tingling cramps. He tries to figure out if Alex just recently started smelling this good, or if he always has and he’s just never noticed.

His mind flicks back to that night, the party at Ovechkin’s house with Alex tight against his back and vodka in his mouth, and he’s forced to admit that maybe he’s noticed since then.

He’s an idiot.

“There.” Ovechkin caps his pen, hands it back. “You should try that.”

Sidney examines the play on his notebook, head tilted and with a healthy dose of skepticism. “Should you really be helping a rival like this?”

“I tell you, not rival in English class. Or in bedroom, ey?”

He did not just wink. Seriously. “Oh my god. We are not talking about that. This is the worst place in the world to talk about that.”

“Besides, I never say that play works.” He shrugs, then smiles again. “I mean. It always works, you should try against Monuments next game! We never defend against it!”

Sidney doesn’t want to laugh, but he can’t help himself. “Shut up, we need to work on this paper,” he manages after a few seconds, but it’s not a very strong admonition.

“Right. Leave us free to do other things when I come to house later.”

Sidney’s head snaps up, and Ovechkin looks innocent as a choir boy. “Like play video games.”

He snorts, and he would love to start working but Alex is _right there_ and he smells nice and he keeps making jokes like that and it’s really, really distracting. And distracting is pissing him off, he hates feeling unfocused and unmoored, which seems to be his default state with Ovechkin right now. He sighs, puts his pen down and turns to look at him full on, instead of darting awkward glances out of the corner of his eyes like a villain in a B movie. He clears his throat until Alex focuses on him. “Last night . . .”

“Is not best place,” Alex reminds him mildly, glancing around the classroom with over exaggerated subtlety. “Is classroom.”

“Then you need to stop making innuendos,” Sidney snaps back and he puts his certainty into his voice so that it sounds razor sharp. Ovechkin has the nerve to look hurt.

“I always make innuendos.”

Everything in him wants to be freaking out, this close to Alex again. But strictly speaking he’s telling the truth, and if Sidney wants things to be normal he has to accept that with Ovechkin there’s a relative level of normal that looks nothing like normal to most people but is totally fine for Ovechkin.

Sidney’s never done this before, and clearly Alex has home ice in this match off.

“Right.”

Ovechkin smiles at him, a little quirk of his mouth, and then they go back to what they should have been doing the whole time, discussing their paper and comparing ideas they’ve had in the past few hours since they saw each other last. It should feel like entirely Too Much Ovechkin, but instead it feels like exactly enough.

Alex doesn’t escort him to his next few classes, and it feels good. It was one of his less than endearing hobbies and it gives Sidney time to at least be in the presence of his nice, normal, not at all attractive teammates. Not that Ovechkin is attractive or anything, because he’s not. Sidney’s stomach getting weird about it is just stupid.

Clearly the team is not hanging out, because Sidney doesn’t hang out, and certainly not at school or anything like that, but he’s around them without Ovechkin and it reminds him that he really does have some of the best teammates in the world, even when they’re not on the ice.

Lunch has him sitting between Geno and Colby, listening to all the conversations happening around him, and it’s all normal. Max and Flower are stealing food off each other’s plates, Neal looks torn between confused and creeped out, and Geno and Ovechkin are carrying on some conversation in Russian that sounds heated but could be a recipe for all he knows.

Actually, then it really _would_ be heated.

“Hey, so.” Colby takes some of his fries, and Sidney lets him. He wasn’t eating them anyway.

He tears his eyes away from the emphatic gestures currently being exchanged without many words at all. “Yeah?”

“You seem better.” Colby rests his chin in his hand, watching him seriously. “Yesterday you were like, the most nervous I’ve seen you in a long time. You looked like someone was gonna jump out of a bush and water board you or something.”

We just finished a game with the Monuments where Alex kissed me. Of course I was jumpy, he doesn’t say. “Kizler already did that on Saturday, I guess I don’t have much I have to fear anymore.”

Colby shakes his head, goes back to staring like if he stares intently enough maybe Sidney will wilt under the pressure of his regard and spill millions of secrets or something. Which is ridiculous; Sidney doesn’t have secrets. “Yeah, no. This was _yesterday_.”

He’s not a good liar. He’s even worse to Colby, and he doesn’t want to start now. “Ovechkin freaked me out after the game, got into my head enough that it had me all nervous and anxious, and just. We worked it out.”

“So you no longer suspect that Ovechkin wants to jump your bones?”

Luckily he blushes at stuff like that all the time, so there’s nothing suspicious about how red he is right now. “We worked it out,” he repeats, voice trembling.

“You worked it out.” Colby looks like he very well might be planning to slaughter Alexander Ovechkin if Sidney is lying, but he’s not. Mostly. They worked it out by making it impossibly more complicated, but no one needs to know about that right now. Probably no one needs to know about that ever.

“Yeah. We’re working on an English paper at his house, and the whole thing got settled.” It’s as close to a lie as he can get, it feels so wrong to be looking Colby in the eye when nothing at all is settled.

Colby is skeptical, but he has nothing in that conversation to call Sidney on, because none of it was a lie in the strictest meaning of the word lie, so he has to go with it.

“Fine. But if he does anything stupid to you I’ll kill him for you, understand?”

Sidney did something stupid right back at him, which might be the only thing keeping Ovechkin from an unfortunate death sentence ala Colby Armstrong.

Ovechkin is watching him, he can feel it against the back of his neck. Sidney doesn’t want to look over, if he does he might do something stupid like start having feelings in the middle of lunch and that would be inconvenient. Everyone who isn’t Colby seems to be cool with it, so he’s got to keep the cool thing going. “Yeah, I do. Thanks, Colb. I just. Yeah, it’s good. It’s fine.” And just like that he can feel Alex’s gaze slip away, like an ice cube melting down the back of his neck. And then he _misses_ the weight of it.

He might be losing his mind a little.

Colby looks heroically unimpressed with him, and Sidney feels a lot like squirming but he won’t, because that feels too much like a concession. Instead he goes back to eating, taking Geno’s offered Snickers without a word, slow and methodical and _Sidney_ like he always is when he needs to forget everything by focusing on something.

It’s a hot rush of relief that they have practice, so there’s no chance of Alex cornering him and somehow using his massive force of personality to trick Sidney into having feelings in his general direction or something. They have practice and practice is sacrosanct, Ovechkin understands that and won’t bother him. There’s no chance that Patch or even Dan will let him anywhere near the rink while they’re running plays anyway and it’s such a _relief_ that he feels dizzy with it.

He’d told Colby they were okay, and they were. It was for a given value of okay, though, and Sidney’s okay is never the same as normal people’s okay so it’s really not a lie so much as okay by a matter of degrees.

The thing is, he’s Sidney. He knows how to place everything into neat little areas of his brain so that he doesn’t have to deal with them until he’s ready, or they stop being a problem. Hockey’s been good for that – it’s taught him focus since before he could even speak properly, and it’s also given him something to focus on that requires his whole attention, _demands_ it. For Sidney there’s no such thing as distraction on the ice, and he’s looking forward to skating today, to running plays with Geno and Nealer, the way Taylor looks forward to Christmas and birthdays. It’s something he has on his horizon, and all he has to do is just _be good_ and he can have the reward of skating and passing and forgetting for just a while.

Geno turns and draws him in then, and somehow he ends up talking to Geno, and Ovechkin by proxy, through the rest of lunch. It’s the most conversation anyone in the team who isn’t Jordy has seen them have. And Jordy doesn’t count, he was too into his new friend to notice that Sidney and Alex managed a civil conversation in class.

Well, Sidney managed to be civil. Alex is always civil, always friendly and excited and happy with everyone, but for once Sidney manages him without looking pissed off, confused, or irritated during the whole conversation, and it seems Geno notices because he’s beaming between them like he somehow brokered international armistice.

Geno walks with him to class, which makes sense since they have the same one. He doesn’t do anything to let on that he knows anything, but Sidney can’t help but be a touch jumpy. Alex and Geno share a language Sidney has no grasp on, and he knows how well Geno and Nikita kept their own secrets in that same language. There’s some sort of strange Russian mind meld shit that seems to go on and he knows for a fact that secrets don’t exist. He can just imagine what they might have been talking about during lunch. And he hates being suspicious, because Geno is his _teammate_. But for all of Colby’s deceptively perceptive threats Geno’s the one he’s terrified will find out somehow. Like maybe Ovechkin sat down next to him, blurted out “I gave Sidney Crosby head last night”, and then they talked about it while Sidney sat silent and nervous and unaware just down the table. It doesn’t seem fair in the least.

“Hey, Sid.” Geno smiles at him, a small little quirk that looks torn between nervous and grateful. Sidney feels his belly tense up (again, bloody again), but all he does is shake his shoulder a little bit, reassuring. “Thank you. For give Sanja chance, thank you.”

He bites his lip, looks away. He probably should have given Alex a chance without Geno all but forcing them to hang out. It’s important to him. “You’re welcome,” he says after a few seconds. “He’s not. He’s alright. In an annoying way.”

“Well, yes. Is Alex Ovechkin. He . . .” Geno scrambles for a word, then gives up with a shrug. “Alex Ovechkin.”

For all Geno’s English is less than perfect, that’s probably the best description of Alex that he’s ever heard. “Yes, yes he is,” he agrees as neutrally as he possibly can. His hands have started that minute tremor again, and he changes the subject as quick as he can so that hopefully Geno doesn’t have any reason to suspect anything.

Really, it’s a pretty radical mental leap to go from ‘Sidney is acting weirder than usual’ to ‘Sidney must have done something questionable with Ovechkin last night’, but he doesn’t even want to risk the possibility of it. They make it to class with Sidney detailing all the things he’s seen that even vaguely relate to hockey, and Geno listens because Geno is probably his friend, and that means he has to care about things that Sidney cares about. Sidney’s careful to ask about his parents though, too, just to be fair.

Somehow he makes it through the rest of the day at school both without running into Alex again and also without having a mental breakdown. He credits the former with helping him achieve the latter, honestly. And then it’s practice and going home and all of those things also don’t involve Ovechkin which is exactly what he needs right now.

“You guys, seriously.” Jordy keeps darting looks over his shoulder to the locker room door like he’s expecting a zombie horde to be stomping through at any moment. “I think I saw _Ovie_ outside earlier.”

Sidney does not drop his stick.

“So what?” Flower shoots back, gradually disappearing under the bulk of his padding. “Patch will never let him in or anything.”

“Maybe he’s hanging around for Sid’s auuuuutograph.” Max has a uniquely amused expression on his face, making fish lips at Sidney. “Can’t resist a winner.”

Sidney’s lips are a thin, painful line in response. “Shut up. It was probably just someone who looked like him, or something.”

“There are really not a lot of people that look like Ovie,” Jordy muses. “He’s got that whole. _Ovechkin_ going on.”

Talbot is staring at him. “Jeeze, Sid. Look _more_ terrified, please.”

Fortunately he’s good at ignoring his teammates.

“Whatever. Like Flower said, there’s no way he’ll get in. If he’s here. Which I doubt.” Sidney’s hands have resumed working the tape on his stick. “Stop worrying and get out there, they only lost by one and that’s one too many we allowed them.”

That’s met with a collective groan, but he just stalks off onto the ice as well as someone on skates can stalk, which isn’t really that well at all. Waddle angrily, then.

Dan is there when he gets out, but Patch is nowhere to be seen. He must catch Sidney looking around because he shrugs. “Terry’s sick with something, thinks he got it from his kids. I’m gonna be running the show today.” He waves the clipboard a little.

Sidney glides over and nods. “Yeah, okay.” The urge to say something, anything, to Bylsma is so strong he can feel it in his throat like a cough, like he has whatever Patch has. But there’s really no way to broach the subject with his assistant coach — _yeah, I was just wondering what the protocol is when you think you might have a_ thing _with a competing player_ — definitely not in the short time while waiting for everyone else to come out and probably not ever. Instead he just shifts a little bit, leaning on his stick and waiting for instructions in what Flower and Talbot like to call his unprogrammed droid mode.

Dan sets out their schedule for the day, the drills and scrimmages, then sends them out to warm up before launching into them.

He and Neal are solid, their passes connect and it feels good, if not great. It takes more effort to concentrate than he would like, so they run it again. And then again. He’s trying not to think, but he can’t help it. So they have to try again.

When he watches it looks like Geno and Dutchy have managed some sort of rapport, and while it’s not as effortless as the thing he had with Nikita it’s a hell of a lot better than they’ve been managing. Still, he can’t help but offer advice, analyze their patterns and throw ideas at them whenever he’s not busy driving his own line. Flower’s solid in the net in that dependable way he has where he’s not really pushing himself too hard but doing great anyway, so Sidney suggests a few things to him as he glides past. The whole thing is really just _okay_. He’s riding them hard, but he feels off and has to correct it some way. Because the thing is, good is never enough, not when words like ‘flawless’ exist, and for some reason he’s hyper aware of that fact.

After all, he thinks with a hysterical type of humor, he had sex with Alex Ovechkin, and that was pretty good.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Captain Tightass,” Max gripes, skating past him. “What’s died in your jockstrap?”

There are so many things he wants to say. He doesn’t.

“Musta been when he saw your mom naked last night,” TK says as he skates by leisurely. Max takes off after him with a snarl, and Sidney has to yell after them.

“This is practice! We have to focus!” It feels like hypocrisy, when he’s not focused at all.

He’s gonna get an ulcer at this rate, and it’ll be all Ovechkin’s fault.

Stubborn determination has always been enough to get him through pretty much anything. When he just focuses on not thinking about it he’s fine. He finds his zone and he just _plays_ , and it’s great. Solid. His brain shuts off once he’s actually doing what his body knows how to do without conscious thought, and it’s decent but never good enough.

The guys head straight for the showers after practice but Sidney stays out there, gliding slowly over the ice in loops, cooling off and just letting his muscles work. He loves hockey, but he also loves this — gliding over the ice with easy movements that feel as natural as dreaming. It lets him go somewhere inside his head where that’s all there is — ice and Sidney. He’s not nearly good enough, and he needs this to focus.

“You’re a little off.” Dan glides over, one of the few times Sidney’s seen him out here since he started college and left active play behind. “Not enough that most anyone would notice, but Terry would have.”

Sidney shrugs, skates away just a little and so Bylsma follows him.

“Good thing he was out sick, or he’d have you over on the bench telling you we already have a coach, it’s your job to captain.”

Sidney flushes a little. “I’m sorry,” he grits out, frustrated. “Just a lot of things on my mind.”

He rests his hands behind his back, glides around Sidney slowly. “Fair enough. I’m almost relieved, y’know? People are allowed to have things on their minds, Sid. I’ve just never seen it happen with you, so I wanted to check.”

That’s because, aside from hockey and how to keep playing hockey, Sidney never has anything on his mind. “I’m.”

“Yeah?” He pauses, comes to a full stop and waits. “This is about the game Friday, isn’t it?”

Sidney comes to a full stop, skates barely kicking up snow, and looks at him like Dan just shot his hypothetical dog. “I . . .”

“Because I’ve only seen you this weird when you have something you feel like you need to prove, and you have nothing you have to prove to your own team, Sidney.”

If he was looking at Sidney with pity, curiosity, expectation, he’d probably chicken out and not say anything. But all he sees on his assistant coach’s face is neutrality, patience, and so he looks away and starts talking. “If I . . . If I became . . . friends . . . with Ovechkin, how would that be?”

“People have friends that aren’t on the team, Sid.” He holds a hand up, stopping him before he can protest. “And yes, sometimes those friends are on different teams. Geno and Alex seem to get along, from what I saw, and he’s not skating like he’s got weights on his ankles.”

Sidney looks horrified.

“Okay, it wasn’t that bad. Hell, you still do better than some people at their best.” Dan starts to skate, and Sidney starts after him for a few seconds, moving and progressing. “Sidney, I know this might be hard for you, but there is a line between ice and off. You’ve carried yourself like there isn’t one ever since you’ve been a kid, but there is. Now, will being friends with Ovechkin change how you play? Will it make it harder to pass, drop your points production? Or will you suddenly get loose lips, start spilling strategy?”

“No,” he says automatically, unthinkingly. Not that. Never that.

Dan nods, glides around the back of the goal and starts off again. “Then where’s the harm? If you keep it separate, don’t let it stop you from doing your job out here when you’re facing off with him, then go ahead. And I know I’m not your coach, but Terry would say the same damn thing. It’ll be good for you to have someone who’s not on the team. It’s fine, Sid. Just don’t let it get you so guilty you play like that all the time. Or it will be a problem.”

Sidney follows him for another few laps, slow and easy, then glides off with a quiet “Thanks.”

By the time he gets to the locker room it’s cleared out. He can take the time to clear out his head without his team around him for once. Going the rest of practice without Ovechkin – it’s nice, it’s a relief. He can just walk out to his car in that peaceful zone that he gets into after a good turn, where everything feels crystal sharp and unhurried, perfect. He’s not thinking about much of anything except how tired he is and how good that feels when he unlocks his car and almost screams when somehow Alex is _inside_ his car.

“What the _actual_ fuck?” he demands once his breathing has resumed normal rate, and once Alex is no longer laughing at him. “I’m. We had practice, you can’t _be_ here. Are you _spying_?”

“Sid, you wound me! Is any way to greet friend? I think not. Specially not friend with _benefits_ , yah?”

Sidney stares. “You did not just wink. There is no context in which winking is not creepy.”

“I was thinking, host parents out again tonight. Gonna be doing some sorta charity thingy. You come over.”

There is also no universe where that is a good idea. “I can’t. It’s my turn to do the dishes.”

Ovechkin sighs, leans back against Sidney’s headrest and closes his eyes. “At least say you gotta wash _hair_ , Sid. Gonna blow me off, go with tradition.”

“I am not blowing you . . .”

“Yah, clearly. Is the problem.”

He flushes, nearly gags over his tongue and starts over. “I am not _ignoring_ you. I have things I need to do. Things that don’t involve you, believe it or not.”

“I come over, we have dinner then study at your place?”

“You are not inviting yourself to dinner. No. No way. Get out.” He pops his door, gestures him out. “Go home. Leave me alone. Last . . . whatever happened, last night. It was a mistake. It’s not gonna happen again.”

“Was not mistake, Sid,” he argues as he climbs out. “Was _great_. Should happen as often as possible.”

Sidney bends to toss his bags into his car and slams his head into the roof as Ovechkin’s fingers curl around his hips, fingers teasing at his belly. He starts cursing as loudly and highly as he can. “Fucking cock sucking mother _fuck_! What are you, a fucking nymphomaniac?”

“Teenaged boy.” Ovechkin looks entirely too pleased with himself, fingers rubbing at his hipbones, body hot against his back. “Really, it be great. Why you think was mistake?”

“Maybe because you’re my chief _rival_ apparently?”

Ovechkin laughs, steps back again to lean against his car and watch Sidney pack his stuff without once offering to help. Jerk.

“I’ve never done this before,” Sidney grinds out reluctantly as Ovechkin just stares at him like he’s not leaving until he’s got an explanation he likes.

“You never have rival like me! Is very hot, we take out post game feelings together. Nothing better for post game feelings than sex, eh?”

Sidney’s trembling again, shaking with either anger or with the effort to controlling it. “Either you’re deliberately misunderstanding me, or you’re stupid. I mean I have never _done this_ before.” Sidney hesitates to use the word ‘virgin’, but it’s pretty clear Ovechkin figures it out after a few moments of mouthing the words to himself. His mouth opens into an exaggerated O of surprise, and his eyes light up.

“Great Sidney Crosby? Is no way, you lie.” Sidney opens his mouth to tell him that no, he would never lie about something that makes him look _this pathetic_ , but Alex continues. “Explain a lot, really. No worries, though. I glad to teach you.”

Sidney wants to kill a lot of things. “Shut it. I’ve been focused on other things. Relationships have _drama_.” He makes a face. “They’re annoying. We’re not doing this.”

“We totally doing this. Was great, no drama at all.” Alex is standing really close, close enough that he can feel the heat coming off of his body even through his coat. “Easy peasy, Sidney.”

He shakes himself out of it. “No. This is stupid, this is the worst idea in the history of all ideas _ever_ , it’s . . .”

He doesn’t get to finish, because Ovechkin is kissing him. It’s a lot like last night, pressing him against his car and keeping him just off balanced enough that he doesn’t protest, and somehow he gets the feeling that no matter how many times he kisses Alex, no matter how many ways it happens, it’ll never stop unbalancing him. And that’s dangerous.

“You not even _hot_ ,” Ovechkin manages, and his voice comes out on a weird, high pitched whine that sounds like pain.

 _This_ is dangerous. “We’re in a _parking lot_ , you maniac!” He punches him, and Ovechkin lets out a huff of air without moving back.

“No one see, is okay, Sid.”

“Only my teammates call me that.”

“None of your teammates have sex with you; I get special privilege.” He darts forward for another quick kiss, and maybe if Sidney just returns it he’ll leave him alone. It’s little more than a quick brush, a hint of teeth against his lower lip and a little smirk, and then Ovechkin grins at him. “Your place, right?”

He’s back in the car before Sidney can correct him, his pulse racing in his throat like he’s been skating all day. He wants to argue, wants to throw a fit and refuse but arguing with Ovechkin when he’s in a teasing mood is about as effective as screaming at a rainstorm, and he doesn’t have the air in his lungs to waste. Instead he climbs into his car and hopes like crazy that maybe something will happen during dinner that will distract Ovechkin enough to get rid of him. Maybe a really pretty butterfly will flutter by. Or a unique snowflake or _something_.

||

He really wishes his mother hadn’t gotten that rapturous look on her face when he’d lead Ovie through their door, the one she gets whenever Sidney has a friend but especially when he has Ovechkin, apparently. He sorta needed someone to remind him what a horrible idea this is, but instead she starts taking his coat, inviting him into the kitchen, just generally acting like she _loves_ him, which she pretty much does.

Ovechkin is charming, it’s one of the things he hates about him, the effortless, easy way that he has.

“I’m so sorry, we don’t have much of a dinner planned, we had no idea Sidney was going to be bringing a friend home . . .”

“Oh, is okay! I not need complicated meal, eggplant parmesan is good!” He follows her into the kitchen, raving over the smells while Sidney toes off his shoes in the entry way and hangs up his own jacket. His own _mother_ adores Ovechkin, right when he needs someone to have his back. His life is _horrible_.

When he gets into the dining room there’s only one seat available, and it’s next to Ovechkin. Who’s sitting at his family’s dinner table and smiling at him so wide his face might split, patting the seat next to him. “Sid! You sit next to guest, keep me company!”

If he so much as lays a _finger_ on him during family dinner time he will kill him and apologize to his mother for being a poor host later.

He’s still standing in the doorway, and even his dad looks a little bit confused by his behavior. “Oh, um. Okay.” He sits at the corner of his chair farthest from Ovechkin.

“Sidney, you’re gonna hurt your back sitting like that. Sit properly.”

He does, pulling his chair away as subtly as he can.

“You are such a freak.” Taylor shakes her head at him like she’s some sort of world weary adult or something and he makes a face at her.

The only real bright point of the meal is the unabashed skepticism his dad directs towards Alex, like he’s confused as to how he ended up there and also why anyone compares him to _Sidney_. He spends at least part of the meal grilling him about his stats, his theories on hockey, and looking dubious at his answers. His mom, however, seems entirely prepared to adopt him, particularly after she finds out he mostly lives on takeout, with his hosts gone so often.

“You need a home cooked meal, you come over here. Don’t wait for Sidney to invite you, you just come over. I always make too much anyway.”

Ovechkin turns to grin at him, and Sidney looks away so he doesn’t headdesk into his marinara. He can’t quite shake the feeling that now that he’s been invited Ovechkin might never leave. Like a vampire.

It really is Sidney’s turn to do the dishes, which is a perfect excuse to escape from him because his mother never makes Taylor’s guests do the clean up.

“No, Mrs. Crosby! I insist, I help Sid with dishes, is least I can do for _excellent_ home cooked meal!” His mother stands there and looks charmed.

 _Dammit_.

He has the nerve to look confused when he gets into the kitchen. “You not have dish washer?”

“It takes a lot of water,” Sidney grits, filling the sink and starting to scrub. When he was younger that cost meant the difference between paying the bills and him getting new skates. And somehow he was never without skates.

“I just thought, this North America! All people have dishwashers, and also TiVo.”

“I think you’re thinking of the U.S. We’re in Canada.”

“You breaking my Russian heart, Sidney.”

“Deal.” They work in silence, Sidney scrubbing while Ovechkin rinses and dries. Finally he hands him the last dish, then shakes his hands out into the sink. “There, we’re done.”

“Sid.”

He turns to look at Ovechkin, who’s watching him curiously. It almost looks like he’s been staring at him for awhile, and that’s weird.

“Yes?”

“Is time we study?” He looks _way_ too excited about that.

“. . . yes. In the living room.”

“Yeah, no.” Ovechkin takes his arm, high and near the elbow, but it still feels like too much, too intimate. He tries to pull away, but starting a fight while being dragged bodily through the house towards his room might draw more attention to the fact Alex is holding on to him.

He’s pretty sure his parents should hear the sound of the mattress protesting his sudden presence on it all the way across the house. He only has a second to catch his breath before Alex is there, pressing him into the bed with his greater bulk, lips crushed against his like a hurry.

“Why am _I_ always the one getting pushed into stuff?” he demands, turning his head away.

“If I don’t, you not run away?”

He takes a second to decipher that. “No?”

Ovechkin’s grin is blinding. “ _That_ why you pinned.”

“Get _off_.” He shoves at him and Alex actually goes this time, rolling off of him to let Sidney sit up and catch his breath. He’s pretty sure his hair looks ridiculous. “We have homework. Well. _I_ have homework. I have no idea what you have.”

“Hots for you?”

“Oh my _god_ , why do you exist?” He shoves him off, sitting up and running his hands through his hair. “You are here for homework, we are going to do homework. That is it.”

Ovechkin looks unreasonably crushed by this, but he finally goes to get his backpack while Sidney turns on his laptop and starts working on history.

Before long Ovechkin is next to him, sorta curled against his side, and he’s not sure how someone that much larger than him can possibly be snuggling him but there it is. He’s really warm, and he still smells nice in a foreign, dark sort of way, and it’s making concentration hard because Canadian history is, strictly speaking, boring as hell most of the time. It’s not an easy subject to concentrate on even during good times.

Ovechkin’s hand strokes over his shoulder and he jerks, pulling away reflexively even though it feels good. “We’re studying.”

“You distracting,” he purrs, leaning closer.

“I’m not _doing_ anything!” Sidney insists desperately, scooting away. “This really needs to get finished.”

“I be less distracted with blow . . .” He cuts off only when Sidney’s hand clamps tight over his mouth.

“My _kid sister_ is here!” he snaps, pulling away only when he’s sure Alex isn’t gonna keep talking. “The only reason I didn’t toss you out on the side of the road is because I believe, against all evidence, that you must be capable of focusing and doing the right thing for like, ten minutes. Please don’t prove me wrong.”

He’s not sure if it’s the threat of Taylor walking in or the challenge implicit in his words, but Ovechkin actually settles down and starts to work for real. He’s still leaning heavily against Sidney, and that’s creepy for a lot of reasons.

“Oh my _god_ , why are you so warm?” he whines, but he doesn’t pull away.

They work in absolute silence, not even music breaking up the studying, and the silence stretches the longer they go. It’s not heavy, but Sidney finds himself noticing stupid things like how Ovechkin’s breathing slows and nearly stops when he’s working on a hard math problem, the way it’ll pick up when he’s close to getting a resolution and he wonders if that’s the way he sounds when he’s on the ice, when he sees a perfect shot and just has to slow himself down long enough to take it. If he stops gulping in air and just holds it for a moment before letting go of the shot, letting it off his stick and then gasping as he just waits for the inevitability of it going in.

Sidney’s own breathing is loud and harsh inside his head, and after a while he has to turn on his music because he just can’t listen to himself any more. He can almost hear his heart, the way it shutter steps when Ovechkin shifts against him, when his shoulder drags against his for a split second that’s too long to be anything other than deliberate. It feels weird to be touching him but he doesn’t want to pull away for anything. It’s a novel sensation for him.

He really wishes there was someone in the world he could talk to about this, but he gets the feeling that starting any conversation with “So, Ovechkin and I were studying and suddenly I noticed how nice he smells. Is that weird?” would probably result in him being hung up on.

“Okay.” Alex sets his book aside, stretching himself out. “Done. I get reward now?”

“You should be able to do something without expecting a prize at the end of it.”

“Heh, no. I play hockey.” Alex’s lips against the side of his throat are warm and rough, gliding up his pulse to press a soft kiss to the indentation where neck meets jaw.

And, well. Alex did do his work quietly, and without bothering him. Maybe that deserves thanks of some kind, possibly. A little shudder chases down his spine and he turns, lets Alex kiss him and tries not to feel like his poster of Forsberg is judging him.

There’s a natural aggression present in it, in the way he nips at his lips, crawls onto Sidney’s lap to force him back against the bed so he can settle his greater bulk against him. Sidney arches into it, kisses back with equal force. It feels a little more natural now, less awkward and more like something he can handle so he answers with his own demands, surprised and a little gratified when Ovechkin opens to him and lets him stroke his tongue into his mouth.

He’s a little embarrassed by the groan that tears out of his throat at that, the unthinking acquiescence he never knew he wanted from Ovechkin until he got it.

He can’t help but push back, especially as the deep sounds Ovechkin makes into his mouth have his pulse kicking up to a pace he normally only gets after a hard fought game. He can feel it hammering high in his throat, and he shudders as Alex’s teeth close on it gently, worrying at the skin of his throat with implied menace.

“This is a bad idea,” he gasps out, even as his hands settle on Ovechkin’s hips, pull him closer to his body.

“Is not,” he mumbles against Sidney’s neck. The huff of air against sweat damp skin has him shuddering, goose bumps breaking out over his skin as he shivers, pulling Ovechkin into another kiss. He thinks he’s getting better at it, if the way Alex makes sounds and rolls against him just a little bit is any indicator. He’s getting hard, motion and contact and apparently Ovechkin, which is weird enough but it feels _good_.

Not that the first time hadn’t, or something. Just that now he’s had enough time to sorta get used to the idea of putting ‘Alex’ and ‘hot’ into the same sentence without feeling vaguely gross, to realize that actually it’s sorta nice, it means good things for both of them.

Alex is grinding against him, lips against his throat, when Sidney’s eyes fall on his door and he pushes him away. “Wait. Wait, wait, sorry, door . . .”

Ovechkin casts an irritated look at him, flops back to lay on Sidney’s floor all dramatic like a something out of a Sci-Fi movie. “Siiiiid.”

“What, you want Taylor in here asking me about fractions?” he demands, hustling to his feet and quietly locking the door. “Because if that’s what you want it’ll probably happen.”

“This why this should always be done at my place.” Ovechkin peeks at him from under his arm, blue eyes narrowed. “Get back over here, stop stalling.”

“I am not stalling!” he insists, sitting next to him and leaning over him, nudging his arm out of the way so he can watch Ovechkin’s face as he kisses him. The irritation of the challenge melts the moment he feels Ovechkin go soft under him, pliable and easy. He risks licking into his mouth, leaning over him more until his weight is holding Alex down underneath him.

Alex’s legs settle around his hips, pulling Sidney in so he can settle against him more comfortably. He doesn’t seem to mind the arrangement at all, rolling his hips languidly against him as Sidney makes soft sounds against his lips.

Sidney settles against him awkwardly. He’s entirely too warm, but he sorta likes the feel of Alex underneath him. There’s a little bit of wriggling and shifting until he settles against Alex to where they’re both comfortable, hips slotting together just enough to tease with _goodnicenotenough_.

“Okay, good enough,” Sidney decides after a few more minutes of lazy making out, pulling away to lick at Alex’s throat, hands sneaking under the edge of his t-shirt. It’s an ugly shirt, and he wants it gone.

“Good enough?” Alex pulls back, making a small face at him. “So romantic, no wonder you so successful with ladies.”

“I apparently have success with you, so shut up,” Sidney snipes, turning a little red. Ovechkin is laying propped up against the edge of his bed, hair ruffled and shirt half off and he’s _judging_ him, what the fuck.

“Yes, but I easy.” A wry smile softens the perceived slight, and he pulls him down into another kiss, arching his hips into Sidney. There’s urgency there, a sense of too little time, and it’s not like they have all night for this. Sidney almost never locks his door; sometimes he thinks his parents are torn between proud that he trusts them so much and wanting to consult their parenting books because he’s a teenager and that can’t be normal. So it’s probably good that they trust him, but also their suspicion level’s gonna jump more than most parents’ pretty quickly.

“Shut up,” he decides after too long of just kissing Alex, casting a glance over his shoulder. “Now be quiet or we’re stopping.” His hands fall to Alex’s belt, tugging it open so he can work his — really unnecessarily tight — pants off his hips.

“Oh, yes. Be like captain to me, is great.” Alex is making a face, but he’s also arching his hips helpfully and he honestly can’t tell if he’s being a jerk or not, so he errs on the side of assuming he is and gets his hand around his dick and tugs hard.

As a deterrent it leaves something to be desired; Ovechkin’s face falls open, wide and vulnerable and Sidney has to swallow hard because his mouth is really dry.

“I’ve never,” he starts, then stops himself. That’s never been an excuse for poor performance before, he’s not gonna let it be now. “Just tell me if it’s bad.”

“Eh?” Ovechkin blinks at him, uncomprehending right up to the point where Sidney wriggles his way down his body.

This would be a lot easier if they were on the bed. And if he could afford to get him more naked like they had been, before, but there might be a call for dressing quickly and he’s always heard something about discretion and valor that makes . . .

Actually, no sense at all, he realizes as he babbles to himself inside his head.

“Get on the bed,” he manages before he loses his nerve, settling himself between Alex’s knees once he’s there, leaning up to kiss him.

His lips are slick from the sloppy kiss, and that’s as good an excuse as any to do it, wriggle down and take Ovechkin into his mouth, brain ticking down all the things that felt good about this when Alex did it for him. It doesn’t help that most of it boiled down to hot and slick and _Alex_ like some sort of stupid cliché, that he was so freaked out he’d barely noticed much of anything beyond that. There’s pride resting on doing this, if not perfectly, then at least _not badly_ , so he hollows out his cheeks, tightens his lips and tries to take him down as much as he can.

Ovechkin’s hand falls heavy on his shoulder. If he did anything else Sidney would have pulled away, trapped and too close to the grasping that happens during the initial moments of a fight. But all he does is rest his hand there, thumb stroking a line up and down Sidney’s throat and he swallows, looking up at him.

He looks sorta wrecked, like he just spent all day in three on ones and he’s closer to death than he’s ever been. His mouth forms the word ‘Sidney’, silent and a little dazed and that’s it, Sidney’s done trying to figure this out, he’s just gonna go for it.

He’s pretty sure he’s not much good at it — spit’s running down his chin and his jaw aches and it’s kinda gross, but if he closes his eyes and just concentrates it’s easier to get past it.

“Sid, I. I gonna . . .” Blunt fingers tangle in his hair and he pulls away, because he really doesn’t actually want come in his mouth, ew. All it takes is a moment, a spit slicked palm and Ovechkin’s spilling over his fist, hot and messy. The look on his face is probably really hilarious, but it also makes Sidney lean forward and kiss him so that he can ride it out with Sidney’s tongue licking the grunts he can’t seem to stop making out of his mouth.

When he pulls away Sidney makes a face, reaches for some Kleenex on his bedside table. “Okay, so that’s that.”

Ovechkin looks at him, and Sidney looks back and then he starts laughing. “What about you, Sid?”

He probably shouldn’t be, but he’s a little surprised to realize that, yeah. He’s actually still pretty horny. It’s not something he noticed while he was busy devoting himself to figuring out blowjobs, in the same way it’s possible to ignore slight groin strain when trying to learn a new play. Now that his attention comes back to it he moans a little with the realization that he would really, really like it if Ovechkin would touch him.

“I. Um.” His hips move restlessly, unthinkingly. “Alex, I . . .”

He looks smug, the asshole. “Yes?”

“Would? I think I need . . .” He’s pretty sure he’s bright red, but Ovechkin leans back and watches him, lips quirked up, the bastard.

“Would you _please_ help me get off?” he finally grits out, torn between angry and desperate and embarrassed.

Luckily Alex doesn’t ask him for anything else, leaning down and cupping the back of Sidney’s head, pulling him up onto the bed from where he’s kneeling, moving around until his thighs are settled comfortably around Ovechkin’s hips. He lets Alex pull him down into a kiss, not feeling at all smug about the height difference working out in his favor for once, and it’s easy to just kiss him and almost forget how bad he wants to get off, because Alex kisses really well.

At least until he touches Sidney, one hand still in his hair to keep him from pulling out of the kiss as he works his other hand over him.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Sidney whimpers, pulling away to bury his face into his neck. It’s sweaty and gross and too close, but he can feel every lick of blood and feeling in his entire body rushing into his dick, like his whole body wants to experience Ovechkin’s hands on him even if all he’s doing is jerking him off. It’s burning up and down his spine, little thrills of sensation that have him making stupid little sounds and biting his lip. “Alex . . .”

His lips skim Sidney’s throat, an edge of teeth against the curve of his shoulder and he mumbles, “You call me Alex twice, Sid.”

It’s not like he just suddenly said the hottest thing ever, Sidney’s pretty sure that’s not how dirty talk works at all, but he comes from that just the same, the realization that he had, and that Alex had fucking _noticed_ , like it was important to him.

He will never admit that to another living soul.

He kinda wants to stay slumped over Alex forever, or at least until he starts getting uncomfortable with the sweat and smell of spunk, but then he hears a sound and any afterglow he might have managed to work up is lost in a rush of dressing frantically, throwing open his window in the middle of fucking winter to try and air the room before peeking out to see Taylor coming out of the bathroom down the hall.

He must look weird, because she makes a face at him before going into her own room.

“God,” he sighs, leaning against the doorjamb and looking over at Alex, perched on his bed and looking _amused_ , the asshole. “We’re doing this at your place from now on.”

It’s not until Ovechkin is _beaming_ , like a ray of gap toothed sunshine, that Sidney realizes he’s referenced some sort of continuation for this thing.

The realization that he’s actually almost okay with that hits him only a few seconds later, and he has to sit down.


	7. Chapter 7

One of the problems with Alex being ridiculously social, obviously, is that there are some days where Sidney’s just not up to dealing with human beings. Everyone is used to it by now, and they leave him alone. Shit-giving is a time honored tradition, but this they leave alone; Sidney has a right to being alone, and they respect that, at least for a little while.

Unfortunately he still has to go to school because his mom became suspicious sometime around second grade with his supposed sick days where he could play hockey but not manage school. Now she’s some sort of a vigilante about his supposed symptoms. And since he’s not gonna spend a day at home and not at the rink unless he actually is sick, he has to just buck up and go to school and hope everyone reads the signs and leaves him alone.

Alex, however, is his usual cheerfully clueless — or maybe careless — self, and just keeps on like it’s no big deal that Sidney wants to hide from everything. He can’t do too much to him during English, unless they want to have an incident in the middle of class, and luckily Alex is feeling unusually sane or something.

“No, really,” Flower says, watching Sidney. His fists are clenching and unclenching and Flower’s eye is tracking it like a kitten with a piece of string. “His eye. When it starts twitching like that you should really leave him alone.”

Sidney shakes his head, but reaches up just to see if his eye really is spasming. It isn’t. Jerk.

“He should get over it,” Alex says cavalierly, kicking him under the table.

“Please die,” Sidney says as politely as he can, fists clenched. He pulls away when Alex tries to turn the kick into playing footsie. People would totally think something if they did that. They’re at school, and also not Max and Flower.

Alex throws his head back and laughs, says, “You would miss my lovely face,” and steals some of Geno’s lunch, which results in an angry Russian bicker fest.

It sounds more in depth than the stealing of a few bites of pierogi calls for, so when Geno turns and looks at Sidney out of the corner of his eye he’s hit with a rush of gratefulness for his friend and his wily distracting ability.

Intellectually he knows that Geno is friends with both of them, that they’re like some sort of triumvirate of friendship ever since he began to manage more than two sentences to Alex without wanting to punch him, but he never really realized they were the ‘Let’s hang out and be buddies’ sort of friends.

He really should be getting used to Alex having all sorts of ideas about him that he’s not in any way privy to, but he’s not.

“Sidney!” He flings his arm over him at his locker, and Sidney tries to dart away but ends up just even more trapped against his locker. “I have brilliant plan!”

“You need to not be crowding me,” he says as calmly as he can, because seriously. Was he not paying attention at all during lunch?

Ovechkin blinks, then shrugs and gives him about a millimeter more space. “We go to movie, you and me and Zhenya. There nice films out; not about hockey but probably still good. And I want to hang out, so we are all going.”

Clearly. Because Alex wants something, and the universe bends itself to his will to be accommodating. It’s as unfair as most of the Seabirds’ penalty minutes (except those ones involving Cookie; Sidney’s protective of his team but he’s also not actually delusional), but it’s gradually looking to be as much a universal law as gravity.

“Geno agreed to this?” he asks, probably suspiciously.

Alex looks at him like he’s a sad, slow mess. “Yes. He say he want us to be friends; he support me by doing friend like things together.”

His life is unfair, and no one cares about it at all. “Okay, fine. We’re going to a movie. The three of us. Great, sounds good. Text me with a plan.” Texts get lost sometimes; the cell world is mysterious that way.

“Is after school, at four. You gonna drive me.”

Of course he is, of course. “Fine.”

Ovechkin has a grin that nearly splits his face, and Sidney debates getting to his car and escaping but unfortunately he was raised Canadian.

So after school he takes his time getting his things together, backpack and gym bag, and takes his time walking to his car and when he gets there Alex is leaning against it, ass pressed against his door and chatting up the cute girl from French.

That is absolutely not jealousy that’s curling up inside his belly like slow motion video of a fern unfolding. Whatever _this_ is, they’ve certainly not agreed to anything like exclusivity. That would be weird, when there’s not really even _words_ for what this is. Not in English, anyway. There might be one in Russian, they seem like they’d be more on top of the compound weird complicated feelings words, but he can’t exactly ask Geno what that word would be. Whatever it is, they’re not dating and it’s probably not exclusive or anything.

The fact that Sidney’s not getting any anywhere else isn’t loyalty, it’s just the real world.

He still double unlocks his car to make the horn beep as he walks up, mildly gratified at the way both of them jump.

“Anyway, Lara, is nice to be talking to you,” Alex tries to recover as Sidney tosses his things into the backseat with a self satisfied little smirk on his face. “I call you soon, okay? I hooking up with Sidney tonight, but we talk soon.”

Sidney gags on his own tongue; she looks mildly amused, like she’s not sure if he’s aware he got an English idiom wrong again.

Sidney waits until they’re both in the car with the engine running. “I know you’re not that great at English slang yet, but you have to watch what you say or people are gonna misunderstand you.”

“Who said I said wrong?” he asks mildly, and Sidney avoids crashing into a median purely thanks to that reflex that says _wrecking my car would be bad because then I’d have no car_.

It’s another few blocks before he manages, “You better hope she keeps thinking you did.”

Ovechkin shrugs, like it’s somehow not a big deal.

Okay, fine. “What theater are we meeting him at?”

“Metro five, on Central. Gonna see something with spies and explosions and hopefully kissing.”

“Russian spies?” Sidney can’t help but be a little bit curious; he’s always wondered what real Russians think about those movies.

Alex snorts derisively. “No, German. Is stupid; like anyone cares about those spies.”

It’s not funny, except how he ends up laughing about it anyway.

The drive is actually kinda long; it’s a good thing the movie’s not till four. When they get there Sidney finds a parking spot near the back of the lot and settles in to wait for Geno, except Alex grabs his wrist and tugs him.

“We get tickets and snacks, wait for him inside. Is nicer inside.”

“It smells like ass inside,” he bitterly recounts from memory.

“Still. We wait inside.”

“Okay?” It’s a dumb thing to argue over, so he doesn’t. Just grabs his wallet from his backpack and follows Alex inside where they buy their tickets separately because they are not _actually_ on a date or anything. Alex buys what is possibly the biggest bag of popcorn in existence, crowing heroically about how Canada has finally lived up to his high expectations for North America.

“Is brilliant! In Moscow, this enough to feed whole family and here I not need to share any!” He’s almost staggering as he tries to figure out how to hold it and hand over his ticket.

Sidney’s torn between amused and irritated, and he’d offer to help except Alex is an athlete -- he should be able to handle this. He can almost feel the skepticism leaking out of his pores as he clenches his overpriced bottled water in his hand. “Shouldn’t we wait out here for Geno?”

“He know the movie, he find us inside a-okay.” He starts to lead the way to the theatre. “Also, I never tell him we going to movie.”

Sidney freezes in the aisle, whispers “What?” at him.

Alex collapses into some seats right at the back. “I not tell him we going to movie. Was clever Russian scheme to get you to come to movie with me. Is why we much better spies than _Germans_.”

“I . . .”

“Sit. People staring. Easier to yell at me from close, too.”

Sidney collapses into his seat, because people are indeed looking at him. “I can’t _believe_ you lied to me!” he snarls.

He can barely see Alex’s face over the edge of the popcorn. His eyes look amused but maybe the rest of his face looks properly remorseful, like he should be.

“You think you come to movie with me if I tell you ‘Hey, Sid. I want to do movie, just us’?”

“Of course not.” He’s thinking about if maybe he can press charges for false imprisonment or something.

Alex shrugs, eats an absurdly huge handful of popcorn, munching cheerfully. “So, I say to myself ‘Ovi, you gotta come up with something to get Sidney to come.’ And after I remember I make you come pretty easy, I get this plan to go to movie with me.”

“We are in _public_ ,” he hisses, because his life is horrible.

“Yes, but more important is we in public together, and that is good. Popcorn?”

“ _No_ , I do not want popcorn.” His arms cross over his chest almost without thinking about it, and he has to force himself to relax because his muscles are tensing to the point of cramping.

“Not have much fat,” Ovie offers helpfully, holding it out to him with what, for him, passes as a shy smile.

“It’s not . . . I can’t believe you tricked me.” He sits back, takes a drink of his water and slams it into the cup holder on his armrest. And then he takes a handful because he is sorta hungry, and out of all the options available to eat in this theater this is the one least likely to make him want to kill himself after eating it.

“In my defense, you not ask a lot of questions.”

Which is true enough, but “I didn’t know I would _need_ to.”

“Relax, Sidney,” Alex murmurs like an order, and Sidney goes still. He’s been trained and practically bred to respond to that tone of voice, deep inside his body where muscle memory meets survival, and he drops loose almost immediately, even when Alex’s hand falls on his wrist, fingers pressing into the tight tendons there. “Please.”

And, well. Alex doesn’t ask for a lot. He gets a lot, and sometimes it looks like he demands it, but Sidney’s gradually realizing that it’s not like he actually _commands_ that he get anything. The opposite — he seems to be so glad, so _gleeful_ when he gets things, that more than likely he wasn’t expecting anything at all. So he stays where he is, lets Alex’s fingers stroke over the fluttering in his pulse.

He knows it doesn’t look suspicious if someone walked by, but the skin of his wrist is thinner than at his palm by millimeters, blood right at the surface. It’s more than hand holding, both less embarrassing and yet somehow more personal and Alex has his fingers pressed in there like he realizes that.

“Okay.” Sidney has to work to make his voice heard over the previews, but it seems important that he do that.

Alex turns to look at him a little curiously, and he realizes he’s been quiet for long enough that he sounds like he’s talking completely out of turn. “I. Yes, okay. Relax, right,” he tries again, taking a deep breath. “I’ll try.”

He’s Sidney; he’s never just _tried_ before, he always _does_ , even if it takes blood to get it done.

The calluses that cover Ovechkin’s fingers — different from Sidney’s, but familiar anyway — scratch at his wrist as he puts pressure there, just for a second, before he resumes stroking lightly up and down the pulse.

Sidney finds himself turning his arm, just slightly, wrist facing upward and exposed to him. It’s so fucking sentimental he’d roll his eyes if he could catch his breath. During one of the really pointless car chases Alex kisses him, hand on his neck like he’s the heroine in the movie, falling in love with the enemy. It’s quick and tinged with risk, and it’s so dumb that it’s perfect.

Thank god it’s a stupid movie with lots of explosions and tight dresses. If it was a romantic comedy he’d have to kill himself.

||

Saturday afternoon games are some of Sidney’s least favorite to play, but one some of the easiest to watch. It leaves his mornings open for skating and working out, evening free for homework or whatever else he has to get done. It’s convenient that the Monuments pulled the Saturday afternoon game this weekend, when the Seabirds are off until Sunday night. It means he has time, time to do what he needs to do and then sneak to their game, watch it in person and for real, instead of on YouTube, or as part of the action. He shouldn’t feel weird about it, it’s not like he’s spying or anything ridiculous like that. He’s just scoping his competition, but somehow when the competition is Alex it feels inappropriate. It’s stupid. He’s allowed to enjoy watching him skate.

He doesn’t want to take anyone with him, but somehow Geno ends up coming with him anyway. Which, it’s okay. Geno tends to be quiet, to appreciate the game and the players in a way that doesn’t interfere with Sidney watching them. Max or Flower, they’d be chirping the whole time, starting shit and making it impossible to just watch what’s happening on the ice. TK would be talking, Nealer and Dutchy would be fixated on Sidney’s opinion like they wanted to learn everything possible, but Geno’s just a silent, appreciative presence next to him as they file into the stands.

He takes a seat up high, where he can see the action without necessarily being seen by any of the players like he would be if he were close to the glass. He’s here to evaluate, to watch their play. Nothing else, no matter how nice watching Alex from up close might seem.

He and Geno are quiet through the warm-ups, watching the teams out there. Geno’s leaned back, watching with a sort of distracted interest. Sidney’s hunched forward, arms crossed across his knees and staring at the action as though warm-ups are just as exciting as the actual game.

He loves the game, all of it, so in their own way they _are_ just as exciting.

Alex isn’t hard to spot, even if he didn’t know a thing about his name or number. He moves on the ice exactly like he does everywhere, like there’s no difference between Alex at a game and Alex at school. He’s rough, loud, aggressive and large in everything he does.

Sidney doesn’t want to spend all his time tracking him with his eyes, but he sorta does anyway.

There are other people on the team, but none of them are nearly as _interesting_.

Well, except maybe Backstrom. That guy’s pretty amazing.

Geno’s quiet next to him, and once the puck drops he starts leaning forward, too. Watching with a rapt sort of attention, eyes fixed on the play with eager attention to the details of it.

Sidney sometimes forgets that Geno and Ovechkin knew each other, or at least knew _of_ each other, when they were back in Russia. Geno elbows him sometimes, pointing things out in his struggling English, telling him about this one time he heard of Ovie doing this, or the time he’d seen him do that. They’d never played directly against each other, but he has stories and stories about all sorts of different things, stories he wants to share with Sidney, and Sidney listens because actually, he’s sorta interested in hearing what he has to say.

It’s like having some sort of backstage pass to all things Ovechkin from pre-Monuments, and it helps. It’s fascinating, and it also helps.

But more than anything, he just watches.

Geno’s the perfect companion, because he’s not bothered when Sidney doesn’t talk much, when he doesn’t respond for several long minutes, or at all. He doesn’t feel the need to fill in the gaps in sound with anything, and that lets Sidney focus. Geno’s a good friend.

He gets to where he responds less and less. More than anything he’s just watching Alex, and as much as the hyper competitive part of him hates to admit it, he admires the way the guy _moves_.

In a weird way, it makes perfect sense. Sidney was prepared, _is_ prepared, to say that hockey is the one love that he’s going to carry through his whole life.

In his own way, Alex personifies hockey in a way he’s never seen another single person manage. Speed, aggression, grace. Unpredictable and endlessly infuriating, but mesmerizing. Something that he wants to watch and learn and understand, while at the same time he knows he’s never gonna get it down. Not 100%. They’re different players, different people, and he doesn’t think he ever wants to reach a point where Alex isn’t capable of surprising him on the ice, because life might actually get boring then. Without unpredictable Alex out there, dragging his team after himself like a one man locomotive.

He realizes he’s probably being really ‘sappy and gay’ about it, just like Max so gleefully pointed out, but the thing is Geno had Nikita, so he’s not gonna say anything.

He also has more sensitivity than your average rock.

Alex’s a monster out there, when he’s on the ice. He just breaks through everyone like they’re tissue paper streamers in front of the finish line or something. He’s huge and he plays a physical game, and Sidney finds himself wondering if maybe he pulled his shots when they were against each other, but.

No.

Not Ovechkin. If there’s one thing he can depend on, if there’s one thing keeping him from going crazy about the whole thing, it’s the certain knowledge that Alex is _Alex_ , and nothing’s gonna make him hit less, hit weaker.

Especially not when it’s Sidney out there on the ice, the guy Alex’s developed that weird obsession with beating and possessing, all at once.

Sidney can’t hope to explain it. He can only hold his own.

And, well. He might smirk a little bit. Once the puck is dropped and skates are slicing through ice he can more than hold his own against Alex.

The game’s going against the Monuments. They might be the new Monuments with Ovechkin on the roster, but in a lot of ways they’re also the old Monuments and the Cubs are already up by two in the second. Sidney feels bad for them, but their defense is just weak, holding it together about as well as silly string, while the Cubs have some of the most flawless defense in the league.

It’s midway through the second, after a rough break away that left the Monuments’ defense scrambling around where the puck had been when Alex happens to glance into the stands as he skates to the box for a line change. Happens to skim his eyes across the ice, upwards, and Sidney can see the moment he sees them because he sits up a little straighter, tilting his chin up and squinting like he’s trying to get a closer look at them.

He’s been doing everything in his power to stay down, just watch the game but the thing is, Geno’s kinda hard to miss in most circumstances, and going around with him is sorta like walking around with a really obvious Russian teddy bear.

Sidney hunches down a little, but contrary to his wishes Geno starts waving. Ovechkin grins, despite the distance he can see the way his face lights up for a second even in the middle of his team falling apart in half asleep play, meeting Sidney’s eyes across the ice until he has to look away.

Sidney elbows Geno until he stops.

“What?” he demands, looking at him. “Saying hi. Being friendly. Sanja is friend, Sid. Yours, too. We here to support, right?”

“We don’t want to distract him,” Sidney murmurs, head still down.

Geno snorts, elbows him, and Sidney scoots away, just a little. “You think you distract? Sidney, Russian _supermodel_ not distract, is game.”

Sidney absolutely does not feel twisting, bitter jealousy worming its way up his throat. He swallows hard, even though.

“Is that. Something that happened a lot?”

Geno shrugs, goes back to watching the game. “He big deal, in Russia.”

Sidney tucks in on himself, watching the game and trying not to think about Ovechkin and Russian supermodels, because he is not his boyfriend, and also not _insane_.

He really doesn’t want to risk distracting him, either, even though he’s neither Russian nor a supermodel. Not like he really thinks he could, his view of his relative attractiveness is firmly grounded in reality unlike certain persons he could name, but he sorta wishes Alex hadn’t seen him at all. He feels weird watching him, now. Like a voyeur who got caught and still isn’t looking away.

Except for how Alex looks up into the stands next time his line is called out. Looks right at Sidney and meets his eyes, makes a fucking _I’m watching you_ motion with his fingers before shoving his hand into his glove and hopping the boards. Sidney can’t look away after that, after the challenge is issued.

It takes until the end of the second period, less than a minute to play, but Alex gets the puck, mainly by taking down the Cubs’ center, plowing over him like he’s less than a leaf in his way.

Sidney’s pulse is singing as though he’s out there with him, like he can feel the puck against his stick, feel the burn of his legs as he breaks for it.

He should pass to Backstrom. He should _really_ pass to Backstrom, there is absolutely no way that he can make a goal like that. He’s positioned horribly, there’s nothing wrong with passing to Backstrom if he actually has a chance in hell of making the goal. It’s dirty as hell and Sidney almost closes his eyes because he can just picture the jumble of arms and legs, the slicing blades all mixed up with skin and padding.

The goal horn sounds like a paradox.

Sidney blinks, wishes suddenly and earnestly that this was YouTube, that he could rewind and figure out how that hell that happened, because there was no way. No way at all, and then.

Alex is slamming into the glass, the plate flexing as his whole body hits it.

His team is all over him, arms and hands and grasping as he whoops it up, celebrates in that way that Sidney will never find endearing. It’s too much, too loud and too focused on Alex instead of the team, even though he deserves it, and Sidney’s clenching his teeth just a little.

Geno pats his shoulder like he understands. Or like he can see Sidney’s fingernails curling into his palms.

Somehow Alex is spun around, facing the stands, and he meets Sidney’s eyes. Even from this distance they’re sharp and clear, and he presses his lips to his glove before raising it up towards him, never breaking eye contact.

Geno shoots him a sideways look, and Sidney slouches and wishes he could die.

“He blow you kiss?” Geno asks, eyebrows wrinkling.

“Ovechkin is an idiot,” Sidney replies, praying like hell no one else saw them up here.

The rest of the game is furious. The Monuments come off the break desperately trying to hang on to the energy of that goal, but their defense is still too many seconds behind and the Cubs score again, while the Monuments just keep ringing it off the posts.

Ovechkin’s pushing himself, trying to drag the team in his wake, but nothing’s happening. It’s just not clicking, and Sidney can feel his frustration and desperation even up here in the stands, because he knows that’s where he would be in that position.

When the game ends it’s with Alex having their only goal, the Cubs up by 2, and Sidney can see the barely restrained fury in Alex’s shoulders all through the handshake line, the rigid way he holds himself until his muscles are shaking with the effort of keeping cool and not like, hauling off and punching someone.

It’s not all that different from when they played the Monuments. Except there’s no Geno to make a joke and break his mood.

And also, no kissing of the opposing captain. Z’s not exactly kissable, not even for Alex, but still.

Sidney’s not sure if he should be relieved or irritated.

Once the lines are done, the teams are off the ice, and people are filing out, Sidney stands and stretches. He would have liked to see the Monuments playing full strength, but he can’t really fault a whole lot of Ovechkin’s game so it wasn’t exactly a waste.

Geno grabs his arm, and without a word starts to drag him towards the locker room. Sidney resists, but Geno’s a cuddly Russian teddy bear _with a really good grip_ , and he ends up hauling him bodily into the locker rooms.

“Why?” Sidney demands as he’s dragged along. “I have to drive home, I’ve still got . . .”

“Homework wait, Sid. Sanja, I know. He need friends.”

“He has his _team_.”

Sidney comes to such an abrupt stop that Geno staggers short, coming to a stop and looking at Sidney.

“His team not you,” he says, voice serious and earnest.

His gut clenches painfully, he meets Geno’s eyes and just freezes at what he sees there. The knowledge, the certainty and it’s not like Alex ever kept fucking quiet about any of his conquests, why should Sidney-related conquests be any different?

If he saw anything in Geno except patience, acceptance and calm, then he might have a massive panic attack in the middle of the home tunnel, and that would probably be a bad thing. But when he looks at him all he sees is understanding, concern, and the marked lack of judgment that pretty much defines Geno to him.

His heart is racing, bundled up inside his throat in a ball that’s making it hard to breathe, hard to function or think or anything, but Geno’s got his eyes on him like compassion, like concern and care. It’s enough that he can breathe again, little shaking gasps that confirm what Geno’s saying better than any words out of his mouth. “We. It.”

“It not business of mine. Of anyone.” Geno shrugs, hand on his shoulder for a moment. “Is good, Sid. You need. Sanja need.”

They stay there until his shaking is under control, until he’s something resembling in control of himself, at least enough that he can mutter “Thank you,” to Geno. So soft it’s almost under his breath, but Geno hears him, squeezes his shoulder and then releases with a little smile and a quick duck of his head.

When he’s dragged into the locker room he’s kinda hoping their coach will kick him out, call them the opposition and toss both their asses out of there, but instead they end up swallowed up in the Monuments and almost unnoticed.

Alex is sitting on the bench, unlacing his ridiculous yellow laces when Geno drops beside him, Sidney standing awkwardly at his side.

He arches an eyebrow at where Geno is clutching Sidney’s wrist, and Sidney jerks away, feeling weirdly _guilty_. Which is stupid, he’s not the one who’s apparently banging supermodels back home.

“We caught your game,” he says finally, rubbing his wrist. “Sorry.”

Alex looks up at him, a little smile quirking the corner of his lips. Almost a sneer. “Sorry we lose? Or sorry you watching?”

He turns red, jerks his head away with a flustered sound and refuses to meet his eyes, because somehow, despite being as perceptive as your average goldfish, Alex _knows_. “Um. The, uh. The first one.”

“Mostly.”

Sidney blinks at him, unsure if he wants to die, or if it would be easier to wish Alex dead. “Entirely.”

Alex winks, and that seems like normal for him. “So you say.”

Geno’s watching them with an expression like exasperation, and that’s the only good thing about this conversation so far, that Geno knows and Geno seems to think both of them are idiots.

“We not good enough,” Alex says, his voice carrying through the locker room, and Sidney can see a few of the other players duck their heads, roll their shoulders like they’re taking the burden of his judgment upon themselves. “None of us was good enough.”

Sidney shuffles his feet. “We. This isn’t a good time, Geno. We should . . .”

Alex’s hand shoots out, catching his wrist in the same place Geno’s had. He’s getting sick of being manhandled by Russians.

“You stay.”

He pulls away, feeling Ovechkin’s fingers scraping against the bones in his wrist. “No, I’m not gonna stay. You need to be with your team. C’mon, Geno.”

Geno looks at him but stands, patting Alex on the shoulder. He says something in quiet Russian, and Sidney doesn’t need to know the language to pick up “It’ll be better next game” and “Work harder” in the way he speaks.

Alex replies with a terse grunt. “Sidney, Geno. We gonna go to my house after game. Play video games and drown sorrows in root beer.”

Sidney pauses. “Okay. Um. Good for you.”

He can see the look on Alex’s face, and even if he didn’t know him the way he does Alex is a typical teenage boy in all the ways that matter. He lost. He feels lousy about it. And he wants to feel better and that involves getting laid. He almost worries it’s written there for everyone to see, but the locker room is so quiet and casual that even if it was a world altering event — which it isn’t, he’s not that hung up on himself and his Big Ovechkin Freak-out to give it more value than it deserves — no one is paying it any mind.

“You come over tonight? Be there? For me.”

Sidney absolutely does not feel his heart shudder at the idea that Alex is asking him like a first choice.

Geno answers for him, which is probably a good thing because Sidney was about to say yes.

“We be happy to.”

||

Turns out Greg and Kristen are home, and they share a look of exasperation that Sidney has come to recognize from anyone who’s around Alex for any length of time, but they open the door to all of them when they show up unannounced, though he can tell that Alex is probably gonna be getting a small lecture once they’re gone.

They all end up in the den, lumped together on the nice furniture and shit-talking as they play Xbox. Sidney’s all jammed up between the guys on the couch while they eat and commiserate and replay the game over and over, critiquing every angle.

They’re all buzzing with the anxiety of losing a game, but he can feel it going down in degrees, frustration slowly being replaced with determination, with _not again_. He’s never been good at taking that edge off of his team; he’s usually fostering it at least a little, his own displeasure at his game bleeding into them no matter how badly he wants to reassure them. Alex is doing so well that Sidney’s a little jealous. He’s pushing them for more, for _better next time_ and _never again_ , but in a way that has them actually loosening up. Recognizing their flaws and even joking about them, but deadly serious that they’re not gonna be that sloppy ever again.

Sidney ducks his head and laughs and listens to their jokes as they throw back honest to god root beer, into which Alex has snuck what’s probably all the vodka in the house. He wasn’t expecting it, so he’s extra careful about drinking it down. He should probably not have alcohol close at hand with the game still there, so close to the surface and with Ovechkin sitting a few people over. The team is unwinding, just enough to be mellow, and Sidney’s doing what he wants instead of what he should, slouched down and scoping out the room as the guys play Gears of War. Alex is just on the other side of Brooks in a recliner and focused on the screen, so intent that Sidney can study his profile a little.

He looks about a dozen years older than Sidney, stubble where he could never hope to grow any and doubts he ever can, but he’s so weirdly _young_ , shaggy hair and unpolished sincerity like he’s never heard of media training or a PR team.

Sidney snorts a little. He’s living with a PR executive, he could totally ask for pointers if it dawned on him.

There’s some weird sincerity to Alex, some lack of any hint of duplicity, it’s something that he can admit to liking when he has something dulling the edges between ‘yes’, ‘no’, and ‘maybe’. All of a sudden his skin is a little too tight, a little wrong on his bones like it’s been stretched out funny on him and he gets out of his seat.

It’s impulsive, when he’s not known for being impulsive. Or, actually, he’s not known for it at _all_ , which is maybe why he risks it. He knows what Alex wants, and he’s got just enough in him to think that maybe, this time, he can give it to him. Give it to him without Alex needing to ask, offer it.

Sex, for Alex, seems to just be a default state of being. Win, lose, draw, he’s going to want it. Either to celebrate or for consolation. And Sidney can’t forget what it’s like, the look on Alex’s face when he comes, completely unguarded and like he’s at peace with the world. He wants to give him that again, even if it’s just for a second.

He’s expecting something disastrous in all honesty when he gets up, walks past Alex and lets his hand drift out of its own accord, brushing against the back of his neck, through the few hairs that curl there. His heart is racing in his throat and he feels sick, but he does it anyway because he knows what Alex needs, and the idea that he could get it anywhere else fills him with some vague, undirected anger. “I have to go to the bathroom,” he announces, ignoring the cat calls about too much alcohol being overpowering for his tiny Seabird bladder.

He’s washing his hands when the door opens and Alex slips in, looking at him with an expression that’s a mixture of curious and proud.

“You came to our game,” he says, arms crossed and looking intently serious in a way Sidney’s never seen before; it lasts about two seconds before he’s grinning like a mad man.

“I could say it’s because I should know my rival,” he finds himself announcing as he dries his hands, stepping into his space.

“We lost,” he points out needlessly, the frustration bubbling at the surface.

“Yeah.” Alex is probably the worst loser on the planet, so apparently it’s Sidney’s turn to look calm and reasonable, which is stupid and unfair. “That happens when you play games against teams that are better prepared than you. Next time, you won’t.”

Alex grumbles irritably at him, turns as though he’s planning to leave and so it’s really now or never, if he wants to do this.

He blushes just a little but steps closer to kiss him, pushing Alex against the door.

Alex makes a surprised sound into his mouth, one that almost immediately becomes a moan. “Mmm, good. Sidney is asking for once, all grown up. Gold star and cookies for everyone.”

“Oh my god, I hate you,” he grumbles, pushing his forehead against Alex’s throat like he can head butt him into shutting up. If Alex talks too much he’s gonna lose his nerve, he knows that, and he can feel his throat moving against his cheek as he raises his head to kiss over his neck, like Alex is swallowing his next words. As if he knows.

Sidney sucks lightly on his throat, the taste of sweat overlaid with the soap he’d used, working at the skin just to get down to _Alex_. He makes a sound, the vibration passing through his body and making Sidney moan right back, and Alex’s hands are under the edge of his t-shirt, tugging it up to tangle under his armpits even though they don’t have time to get naked. He’s touching like he’s desperate for it, like he wants to pull Sidney into his body until they’re skin to skin and there’s nothing like a bad game even in existence.

There are a million things Sidney wants to do for Alex, to help him to forget what happened. He ends up on his knees, staring up at Alex as he pushes him back against the door that they hopefully remembered to lock. Alex’s fingers twist into his curls and Sidney licks his lips, works his belt open and pulls his dick out of his pants and licks over the head, taking him slowly into his mouth and blowing him. He’s still not actually good at it or anything, he’s drooling a fair amount and his cheeks are burning but Alex winds his fingers into his curls and tugs like he is, eyes half lidded and fixed on Sidney, on his lips around his dick.

He gags himself a few times when he tries to be better than he really is, but he doesn’t slip any teeth or anything. He’s doing it like he’s trying to show that he’s secretly good at it or something, like he’s got something to prove, and when Alex strokes his thumb over his jaw he pauses, looks up to meet his eyes.

Alex’s face is wide open, “Is good, Sidney. Not need to try so hard. Also, drool less, please.”

If Sidney were a porn star he’d probably have all sorts of lines about how he can’t control himself because Alex tastes _so good_ , but actually he mostly tastes like dick and it’s only that it’s Alex that makes it tolerable. He knows he’s bad at it and he blushes, but Alex is looking like he’d consider kissing him if he wasn’t all the way down there, so he just goes back to blowing him inexpertly, going over everything in his head so he can make himself better. He’s sorta absurdly proud of himself when Alex comes down his throat with a pained grunt, when he swallows even though it’s gross. His orgasm face is stupid; it’s all open mouth and blacked out eyes like he’s just been sucker punched in the gut and Sidney wishes he didn’t like seeing it so much. He looks utterly blown apart, like everything he’s carried since the game has vanished off of him.

Alex fixes his hair before he lets him to his feet, large and blunt fingers smoothing out the bits that they had previously tugged out of place. It’s weirdly considerate, and Sidney appreciates it because he’s not sure he would have remembered to do it himself.

He’s ready to just smooth his shirt, check his teeth and go out, but Alex catches his wrist, pulls him into a kiss and holds him against himself. Sidney squirms at the contact, trying to get away from being held, but Alex keeps swiping his finger against the sensitive skin behind his ear, rubbing and massaging until he’s shifting against him, rolling his hips and demanding _something_.

“What Sidney Crosby want, eh?” Alex slips his lips to his ear, biting at the lobe. “You not lose in a long time, you need reward for that.”

Trust Alex to make winning and losing demand the same payment, lips against the elbow joint of his neck and shoulder while he works him out of his pants, presses him against the sink and jacks him. It’s too slow, it’s not doing anything except making him a little crazy, and there’s a party out there that’s probably missing them. “I. Alex, _please_ ,” he bites out, face pressing into his neck so he can huff out barely muffled pants across the sweat on his throat. “Just. You, please.”

“I mess up pants if you come like this,” Alex teases, the rhythm of his hand just brutal, and Sidney doesn’t open his eyes until it’s gone, just in time to see Alex guiding him into his mouth, making small speculative sounds as he takes him in deep.

“Alex, I . . .” His hips shudder, pushing into him and Alex’s hands go to his ass, gripping him there and all but daring him to thrust into his mouth; Sidney can’t resist. The way Alex’s lips go red and irritated, glossy with spit, the tickle of his tongue and the dark, knife edged hollows of his cheeks as he sucks. The visuals mean just as much as the sensations; this is _Alex_ there on his knees and Sidney has only a split second to process that before he’s coming. It’s like a blow from out of nowhere, and it has him all but doubling over, biting into his own fist to keep from crying out with how much he needs all of this, Alex’s lips around him and his fingers clenching his ass and his hair tangled and knotted in between Sidney’s fingers.

“Mine,” Alex growls softly into his ear, pressing a kiss to the skin of his temple once he’s back on his feet, holding Sidney against his chest, supporting him. Something about that simple word, possession mingling with the _desire_ to possess, and he loses whatever feeling he had left in his legs and sags against Alex, gasping.

When he finally feels like he can risk moving Alex is rinsing his mouth out with water, spitting it into the sink and washing it down before offering Sidney his little paper cup. He takes it, swills the water in his cheeks and Alex smiles, wide and bright, leaning in to kiss his cheek softly.

“Sorry, there come on your pants.”

Sidney freezes, looks down and that’s enough time to have Alex pushing past Sidney to open the door and stroll out. He’s still against the sink, trying to recover when he hears Alex say, a bit too loudly, “Anyone see Sid? He been gone a long time.”

“Sidney,” he grumbles to no one in particular, pushing off from the sink to clean himself up.


	8. Chapter 8

The whole team notices the changed atmosphere between them. It isn’t like they’re obviously going out of their way to hang out together where the team would find out — in fact, they hadn’t spent time alone without the guys since that party — but there’s an ease to their interactions that’s hard to miss. Sidney no longer gets irritated if Alex takes Geno’s place next to him at the table, as long as he doesn’t do it too often. He rolls his eyes at him probably half as much because Alex, for his part, has settled down by about 20% in the Sidney Crosby department. It seems obvious in retrospect — once Sidney calmed down around him Ovechkin calmed down as well, for the given value of calm. He still acts like a Chihuahua on a cocaine high, but the frantic edge of it has gone down. He’s still loud and annoying as hell, but he’s no longer so desperate to draw Sidney’s attention to himself, because he knows inside himself that he has it, totally.

It’s another thing that, in retrospect, should probably have been obvious. The frantic, desperate search for attention that’s a hallmark of everything Ovechkin does, the need to know that there are eyes on him, that he’s being valued. It lessens once they have their truce, once Geno’s getting slapped on the back for deserving a Nobel while Ovechkin laughs and Sidney looks on with a vaguely bemused expression. He hadn’t realized how much their dynamic had affected the guys, but now that he knows he feels a little guilty, like he should have tried harder to like him from the beginning even though everything that Ovechkin _is_ rubs against some very fundamental piece of Sidney, the part that says to stay quiet and focus on the team.

It’s nice that _whatever the hell_ they have going on has finally settled in a way that leaves him mostly free from panic attacks. Because Friday’s game is brutal; Sidney expected it to be, he’d been pushing the whole team as hard as he can since they almost come up equal with the Orcas. But once they’re on the ice it’s clear that the other team is out for blood, like the Seabirds pissed in their pool or something. It’s not like they’re the Bullies or something, and it takes a little bit of time to adjust to the actual _antipathy_ that’s coming off their lines.

Geno’s centering the second with Dutchy and Max, and they’re holding their own. Sidney’s actually managed to get a few shots on goal, so their line’s the most productive even though the goalie isn’t letting a single thing in. The rest of the lines feel weak and lethargic, a split second behind, and Sidney spends the first break trying his damndest to get everyone on the same page, the page where they’re on the ice and trying to actually accomplish something, like scoring a goal. Or maybe even keeping the other team off their side, that’d be nice too.

He obviously can’t say it, but the thought that he’s screwed up every routine he’s ever had since whatever this is with Ovechkin started is hanging over his head the whole second period, which is insane because Sidney is nothing if not convinced that the whole of the team’s success does not hinge on a certain person, because they are a _team_. But he can’t shake the sick, disconnected feeling. It makes him feel like he might want to puke up his pregame sandwich.

They’re frustrated and it all blows up about five minutes into the second when he gets checked hard into the boards and makes the mistake of taking the cotton out of his ears, looks up into the opposing center’s face and hears him say “So. When we win are you gonna let me kiss you, Crsyby?”

He hunkers his head down, shoulders low and tight.

“Or is that something you save for Ovechkin? Maybe after you suck his cock then he loses for you? Well you’re gonna be losing for me, so maybe —”

Sidney’s not entirely aware what’s happening until his gloves are off and his fist slams into his cheekbone, pushing him back a little.

“Oh, you wanna go?” He looks amused, red blossoming on his cheek in the shape of Sidney’s fist.

“Bring it,” Sidney snarls with a bravado he doesn’t feel, flinging himself forward.

They circle each other, and Sidney grabs for his jersey, hand fisting in the material of his shoulder to pull him in even as he’s ducking to avoid the roundhouse coming his way. It grazes the side of his head, coming from up over his shoulder and he throws a dirty punch into his belly, trying to wind him. It’s badly thrown and doesn’t do more than piss the guy off, sending back another hard blow that has Sidney’s ears ringing. He pulls back enough that he can get in a right hook but it’s a bad angle, hits his shoulder instead of his jaw and makes Sidney drop his jersey so he can back away enough to get a clear hit.

The guys weren’t lying when they said he can’t fight. He’s throwing half formed hits that barely connect, not even able to get his weight behind them while blows rain down on him that have him letting out harsh pants of air between his teeth. But he keeps himself in it, right up to the point where they hit a rut and go down, the other boy's punches landing on his shoulders.

The refs pull them apart then, one of them taking Sidney away with a hand on his elbow even though he’s not fighting being pulled away in the least. The other guy’s screaming threats but Sidney lets himself be led away, feeling the aches in his ribs. He’s a hockey player — he can play past them but they hurt and he’s gonna have to compensate and he’s an idiot for getting involved.

It’s not until he’s in the box, tugging on the gloves that TK dropped by, that he takes a second to just take a deep breath, look around the stands and no, no fucking way.

There’s no way it’s Alex up there, except he can’t think of any other gap toothed brunettes who would be blowing him kisses for getting his ass kicked in the fight he started.

He drops his head into his glove even though ewww, gross, because there is no way in hell that his life could possibly become worse.

Only it does, because once his five is over they have to go into break again, and he ends up with Patch in his face, scolding him for something that he _knows_ was possibly the dumbest move in the world.

“What was going on in your head, Sidney? What did he _say_ to you?”

 _He told me Ovechkin lost for me because he owed me for sucking his dick_. “It was stupid. He was just chirping, it hit me bad I guess. It was _stupid_.”

“That little stunt cost us five minutes, and this isn’t the sort of game we can throw out like that.” Patch sounds so freaking calm, so reasonable, and Sidney knows exactly what he did wrong and the last thing he needs is someone standing there and being reasonable about it.

“I _know_.” He’s an idiot who reacted without thinking, reacted like he’s sloppy or emotional and he’s _not_ , but something just happened when he saw that smirk, when he heard the inference in his tone and it had just been _ding ding dinner bell bye bye rational thought_ inside his head. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again like that.”

“No.” His voice feels like steel. “It won’t.” And then he spends the rest of the break trying to talk Cooke down from exacting some sort of bloody elbowed, Rambo styled vengeance on him next time they’re on the ice together.

Sometimes he wonders what it’s like to be congratulated for his fights instead of receiving a constant, unending stream of advice and shit, but his team needs to have something to rip him for. He gives them that centimeter and they take the proverbial kilometer, joking and jostling him around the locker room like that little silver bearing in a pinball machine.

Except for how everything lights up after that. The whole team, they’ve got something inside themselves that turns incendiary after what happened to their Captain, they go out there and _explode_. Sidney’s at the front of the charge and they just plow over everything that the other team uses to try and stop them.

They level the other team like Tunguska.

The locker room feels like a different planet from the one during the break. Now there’s excitement, energy, frantic feelings all at once as the guys chase each other, make horrible jokes and just _laugh_ even though Sidney’s quiet, just holding himself still as he gets back into his street clothes. He’s okay with celebrating a win, but he’s never gonna celebrate the other team’s loss because that’s not _classy_. So it looks like he’s not participating, even though he is.

There’s a collective _look_ that goes on over his head before Jordy sighs. “Winning is a good thing, it’s what we’re supposed to do.”

“I just think it’s not civil to gloat,” he replies, and Jordy facepalms, then raises his arms in the air.

“Someone needs to go out and get Sidney drunk before he melancholies himself to death. Over a _win_ , Sid.”

“Is like Hamlet!”

If anyone notices that Sidney is the only one who doesn’t react to Ovechkin’s presence, the only one who acts like he expected him, they don’t say anything. “Why are you here, seriously,” he sighs, taking the last of his tape off his socks and wadding it up to throw away.

“I tell you,” he says, flopping onto the bench next to Sidney and watching him take off his socks with an intensity that he can’t imagine the rest of the team is missing. “You perfect Hamlet.”

Apparently this is a hilarious revelation to everyone in the room. Sidney grits his teeth. “No, really. How did you get in here? Did you bribe someone?”

“With what?” he demands, then stands up to drape himself over Geno. “I just miss Zhenya, want to tell him was good game.”

Geno keeps dressing, ignoring him even though he’s half naked and Ovechkin is clinging to him like second skin. He shoves him out of the way when he needs to get pants on, but otherwise he just acts like he’s not there at all. Which is probably good because Sidney can feel incoherent possessiveness bubbling up inside his chest and that’s gotta stop. It’s even more insane than everything else going on in his life right now.

“Okay, you told him. Buhbye.” Sidney waves him off, but Jordy slaps him on the shoulder.

“Hey, what happened to the ‘We’re totally cool with each other now’ SidnOvie we’ve been getting the past few weeks? It’s not like he’s the one who was being an asshole out on the ice.”

“Yeah, seriously. Fuck that guy. We should go beat him up or something,” TK decides, looking thoughtful.

Flower smiles, small and secret looking and with a lot of teeth. “Especially since Sidney couldn’t do it.”

He grits his teeth, but what he sees is Ovechkin detangling himself from Geno to reach out and punch Flower in the shoulder. “Sid did good!”

“Sid did _horrible_.”

“Sid did horrible, but he try.” He flops back onto the bench beside him. “You come to my house, I make you feel better.”

He did _not_ just drop that innuendo into the _locker room_ , where Geno is there and giving them both concerned looks that border on the really painfully obvious. “I. No.”

“C’mon, Sidney. Greg and Kristen gone this time, we can play Xbox and . . .” He catches Sidney’s eye, the look on his face, and winks. “And not get drinks. Is good plan, you need relaxing after winning so hard.”

“I . . .”

Flower shoves at him. “Don’t even, Sidney. We don’t need you hanging around at our party and scaring all the ladies off with your fucking _face_. Let Ovie deal with you for a night while we let loose.”

He hates the universe, but mostly the bits of it that involve his team and the way they’re all agreeing.

“I. That’s a bad idea, I have homework . . .”

“You go, Sidney.”

He looks up at Geno, over at Ovechkin who’s watching him like he’s got something riding on what he says next, and . . .

“C’mon, Sid. It be just us, we play video games and celebrate for real.”

There is nothing in the Captain Manual that says it’s okay for an opposing team’s alternate to invite a rival team’s Captain to celebrate with him and away from his _entire_ team, but there is stuff about taking advantage of opportunities when they’re presented.

“Okay,” he says softly. “I. Okay.”

||

Sidney really, really hopes that Alex wasn’t lying when he said that his hosts were actually gone this evening, because they’re barely in the door before Alex is _mauling_ him, shoving him against every available surface so he can grind against him, rubbing his body over Sidney like he can’t get over his glee at being able to touch.

He hangs on, fingers tangled in Alex’s hair and wishes that they’d restrained themselves well enough to have at least gotten a few drinks into them. If he’s gonna feel like he’s fucking drowning he’d like to have something to blame it on.

Something besides Alex’s sweat, his skin, the way his tongue is working over Sidney and making breathing completely impossible.

They shed their shirts in the hallway, Alex’s hands skimming over his body like reverence, pressing into all the little dips and divots caused by tendons and muscles and joints. He rubs his thumb into the hollow of Sidney’s neck, sweeping over his collarbone like he’s tracing wings or something, leaning in to nip over his adam’s apple with sharp teeth. Sidney gasps, overwhelmed with sensation so suddenly, so out here where anyone who comes in could see them. It has heat coiling in his belly, and when Alex leans in to kiss him, slicks his tongue over his lips he doesn’t even hesitate to let him in on a groan, winding his arms around his shoulders and holding him in like for once he doesn’t want him out of his personal space, not ever.

“Is good celebration,” Alex murmurs, leaning back just enough that he can whisper over Sidney’s lips, leaving him trembling and leaning in for another kiss that Alex denies with a little laugh and a step back.

“But you win, Sidney. You win big, important game. You tell me what you want, yes?”

There are so many things about Sidney that are still all about blushing, apparently. “You,” he manages, turning so red he’s embarrassed for Alex that he needs to look at him.

“Mhhhhm, is good,” he agrees, biting into his shoulder. “But not enough, eh? I simple Russian, need something more clear.” His palm grinds over Sidney’s dick, rough through the fabric of his slacks, pushing just to the right side of too hard.

He’s grinding back, panting short breaths that aren’t enough, he’s gonna hyperventilate. “ _Christ_ , Alex. I want . . .”

“Yes?” The pressure of his hand is gone and he’s leaning against the wall, looking cocksure and with that Sidney’s furious, spitting it out in his face like a challenge, shoving at his shoulders even as his hips try to follow Alex, desperate for more.

“Fuck you, asshole. I want you to fuck me, okay?”

Alex makes a sound, somewhere deep inside his chest. It sounds more feral than human, sounds absolutely _wrecked_ , and for once his cocky arrogance slips as he all but falls back into Sidney’s space, grinning against his lips. Sidney is prepared to feel smug, except he’s getting smushed against the wall, and also feeling sorta overwhelmed.

“Yes, is okay. Is very okay, but not here.”

The part of Sidney that’s out of his mind wants to ask _why not_ , but luckily Alex is better at this than he is, and he pulls him up the stairs, hesitates only for a second in the door of his bedroom.

That’s a second Sidney isn’t ready to give him and he shoves him back onto the bed, crawling into him and melting them together into a single, over clothed mass. “Dammit, Alex.”

“Yes?” He’s grinning, rolling his hips up against Sidney in a fluid, effortless motion. Sidney’s movements, in contrast, are stuttering and erratic, sudden jerks and twists of his body when he can’t take it. Alex’s hands settle on his hips, slowing him down. Holding him and working to match their rhythms to each other, Alex up and Sidney down until it’s perfect. “You think is bad idea? We stop?”

“I will _kill_ you,” he threatens, then cries out as Alex shoves a hand down his pants, not waiting for permission or agreement or any of those niceties.

“Yeah, I think so. But I need hear it from you.” He’s grinning up at him, wide and huge like it’s completely hilarious that he’s got his hand shoved down Sidney’s pants. “I like hearing when you give up control, Sid. Is not a lot, but is nice.”

Sidney groans. “Shut up and just do it, okay?”

“Mmmm, not even nervous? Is unexpected.”

He sits up, looking down at Alex with what he’s pretty sure is a pissed off look on his face. “I’m fine. Don’t suddenly start thinking I’m like, vulnerable or something, because I will kick your ass so far out of this room you won’t . . .”

“Yeah, no. I see you fight, Sidney. I superior, just admit.”

He blinks a few times. “Oh, seriously. Fuck you.”

“Was not plan, but someday, yes.” Alex arches his hips up into him, wiggling and grinning like he’s fucking hilarious, and apparently Sidney is _really far gone_ because he actually finds that endearing instead of exasperating.

“Stop with the clichés and just do it.” He reaches down, pulling his belt out of his slacks and still pinning Alex to the bed under him. He can’t actually delude himself into thinking that Alex couldn’t move him if he wanted to, but it’s giving him some fragment of control that being held down wouldn’t, so he’s taking it as a win.

Unfortunately he has to get up in order to actually work his pants off of himself, and whatever. He’s an athlete, but he’s not _that_ coordinated.

Alex slides out of his pants really easy, arching his hips and pushing them off of himself and Sidney’s torn between impressed and yeah, fucking _duh_ he’d be good at stripping while lying down.

He’s not sure what that means, but it somehow makes sense inside his head.

Apparently he’s been frozen for too long; Alex sits up, reaches for him and tugs his zipper down for him. “Sidney, relax. Is about relaxing. I help.” He guides his pants and boxers down the rest of the way and Sidney fights away the urge to cover himself. It’s not like Alex is seeing anything _new_ it’s just that he’s never seen it _all at once_ and at that moment it feels like a really big deal.

“Your team need Captain who help them relax, too. Not just Captain who obsess over perfection.” Alex shrugs, hair messed up all over his pillow and pulling him down onto himself again. He shoves his pants off the edge of the bed with his foot and pulls Sidney into a rough kiss that matches the rough rhythm he starts working over his dick.

He thinks he should be telling Alex something about how the Monuments need someone who obsesses over perfection, who’s less good at helping them relax. All anyone needs to do is look at their stats for that, but it’s not a direct comparison anyway, so instead he lets his face fall onto Alex’s shoulder, a growl in his throat as his hips snap without his permission. Alex is actually good at this, and he feels a little embarrassed that he’s so bad, but also there’s that desire to _be better_ burning at the back of his throat.

“Okay, shift,” Alex demands, arching his hips against Sidney in a demand. “Is not comfortable position for first time, get on belly.”

Sidney climbs off of him, lets him up before flopping on his bed, looking up at him with a trace of defiance on his face. “I’m not taking my eyes off you.”

“I stunning, I know. But I also know more, Sid.”

Sidney stares up, trying to ignore the burn in his gut at the image of Alex and someone else, Alex being bracketed and fucked into. “I don’t —”

 _trust you_ , he almost says, but that’s such a lie he can’t even let it out of his mouth. He _does_ , and that’s terrifying, but not nearly as terrifying as the realization that he wants to be able to see Alex through the whole thing.

“Want to,” he finishes, lamely. “Do it like this, it’ll be fine.”

Alex arches an eyebrow, still just looking down at him. “You sudden expert?”

“Whatever, I’ve seen stuff. It can work like this.” He’d done some research, watched some stuff online to be sure he was okay with what it involved and it mostly looked uncomfortable and silly but that’s okay. He can deal with that, probably. He tries to sound cool about it, but mainly he sounds like a perv and it’s a look that’s better on Alex than it is on him.

He nods, murmurs “Okay,” like he realizes what Sidney’s saying without saying it out loud, and then turns to rummage in his drawer.

“You better have condoms,” Sidney tells him, biting his lip when Alex turns to look at him like he just said the stupidest thing in the world.

And, yeah. This is _Alex_.

He doesn’t say anything, though. He just digs them out of his nightstand, tosses one and a bottle of lube onto Sidney’s belly like it’s the easiest fucking thing in the world, and he’d believe that except he can see Alex’s hands trembling just a little bit when he does it.

Sidney wriggles himself so he has a better position on the bed, watches Alex with dark eyes as the older boy stares back, reaching out and jerking him a few times before snagging the lube off his belly. Sidney bites his lip and tries to relax when he pops the cap, pouring some over his fingers. It looks like a lot, but the idea of a lot is a lot less scary than the idea of too little, and he lets his thighs fall apart when Alex settles between his knees.

Alex makes a small sound at that, running his clean hand up the inside of Sidney’s thigh. “You trust me?”

That’s a dumb question to ask, they’re right here and it’s clear Sidney does, and.

Sidney does.

Okay, maybe it’s not such a dumb question after all. “I. Yeah. I trust you.”

“Will feel weird,” he warns him. “Need you to relax, and say if it hurts, okay?”

“Yeah, okay. Do it, then I’ll decide.” He shifts his hips, rolls his knee out and Alex presses one finger into him while he’s distracted trying to get his left leg more comfortable in the bed.

First instinct is to flinch, so he stops himself. Takes a few deep breaths and rolls his shoulders into the bed, analyzing the sensation.

It’s not _bad_ , he decides. He’s not really sure what it should feel like, it’s not like he has anyone to ask or anything but he expected it to be a lot more uncomfortable. It just seems like it should be, but he bites his lip and sorta wriggles his hips down. It’s not bad, but it’s also not all that great either, and if it doesn’t get better they’re not gonna be doing this again anytime soon.

“Okay,” he decides, “try some more. Or. Whatever it is you do.”

Alex laughs at him, but a quick flicker of relief crosses his face as he adds another. “Is okay?”

“Your finger’s in my ass. I’m not gonna be making a post about how great it is or anything, but it’s not bad,” he shoots back.

Alex twists his wrist, fingers searching, and that’s a really weird sensation. Again, it’s not horrible but it’s strange and awkward and he’s really starting to wonder if this was a bad idea or something when Alex does something with his fingers that starts a slow burn in his belly, pressing into him in a weirdly intimate way that coalesces into something that’s actually really nice.

“Oh.” He shifts a little, and he barely notices when Alex adds a third finger because “Okay, that’s . . .”

He can’t finish, because if he tried all he would manage would be incoherent sounds that’d be too embarrassing for him to live with. He can’t stop the shudder that rolls through his body as Alex presses into the same spot again with his fingers, and his grin has never looked as unpunchable as it does right now, as he smiles at being able to do this with Sidney.

Sidney loses track of time as Alex plays with that spot, rubbing and massaging, alternating hard and light brushes until he’s reduced to a ball of incoherent sounds anyway.

He pulls away once Sidney reaches some level of preparation that Alex is apparently pleased with, and he makes a sound that’s entirely displeased.

“Gotta stop, it gonna get better. Lots better,” Alex promises with a smug little smile, rolling the condom on with a lot more skill than Sidney knows he could ever manage. Sidney rolls his eyes even though he sorta wants to kill him for stopping.

“Your dick isn’t that amazing,” he shoots back, but Alex just keeps smiling as he lubes himself up, pushes Sidney’s knee up towards his chest and leans over him, hands braced.

“Am I gonna cramp like this?” he wonders aloud, but Alex kisses him quiet.

It’s weirdly considerate, not the sort of thing he expected at all, that Alex takes his tongue out of his mouth before he starts pressing into him slowly. He doesn’t say anything stupid like “Say if it hurts”, but he gives Sidney the option to speak if he needs it, and he’s grateful.

It doesn’t so much hurt as burn, a deep sting that radiates to the center of his being, and he sorta hopes it gets better. He can feel Alex, moving so slowly that the muscles in his hips and thighs are visibly trembling, and he bites his lip and tries to relax more.

His team always calls him Captain Tightass, and the realization is so inappropriate, so _absurd_ , that he can’t stop the giddy, desperate giggle that tears out of his throat.

He must sound panicked, because Alex freezes, meeting his eyes until Sidney stops.

“Whatever. Stupid thought. Keep going.” He’s gonna see it through, if nothing else. Maybe Alex can do with his dick what he did with his fingers, and then it’ll be great again.

“You okay?” he asks, looking concerned, and Sidney laughs because that’s such a stupid question. He’s never handled discomfort gracefully. If he wasn’t okay, then Alex would know.

He tells him as much, and Alex laughs even though it sounds a little strangled and pushes in until his hips are flush.

A wriggle to get used to it, and then Sidney nods slowly. “Yeah, okay. Keep going.”

Alex’s hands fall on his hips, and he almost protests being held like that, but then it becomes clear when Alex starts to thrust, starts to move with an actual purpose and Sidney would appreciate not being shoved off the bed as he gets more forceful.

It takes a few minutes before it’s good, but then Alex starts muttering “C’mon, come _on_ ,” under his breath like Sidney is failing at getting fucked. He’d feel bad except he’s not exactly sure what he’s supposed to be doing. But then Alex does something with his hips and Sidney lets out a startled, choked sound.

It would actually be great if Alex did something convenient like forget English or something, but apparently he talks during sex. Sidney would love to just keep making sounds he’ll deny later and working his hips back against him, relishing the feel of Alex hitting that spot inside his body with brutal accuracy but Alex leans forward, starts jacking him to a rhythm that’s just off enough that it feels like a surprise.

“Why you fight, Sidney?” Alex whispers, like it’s a secret between them. Maybe it is; not like he’s ever gonna tell anyone else anything about it.

Sidney has feelings he’s not at all prepared to deal with, except to lock them away and pretend they’re not happening, so he’s a little surprised when he opens his mouth and blurts out “He. He said you lost in exchange for me sucking your. Your dick.”

He sorta wants to kill everything for blurting it out like that.

Alex makes a soft noise, a speculative noise, and when he kisses Sidney it’s rough and a little bruising, he thinks he’s gonna be feeling it tomorrow like a split lip only he knows about.

“Next time, I gonna win. And then you still gonna suck my dick, okay?”

It’s the most ridiculously inappropriate time in the world to come; he will deny it to the end of his days but Ovechkin does something sorta amazing with his wrist and Sidney’s coming into his fist, making a million stupid noises and faces as he pushes down on Alex’s dick inside his body, holding that sensation tight to himself.

His main consolation is that Alex curses, loud and not in any language recognizable to man before his whole body shudders and he’s coming, too.

“In your dreams,” he manages in a voice that’s too rough, too raw, but it’s late enough that it sounds like a non sequitur.

Alex pulls out, and that feels even _weirder_ , how his body doesn’t want to let him go, feels empty and wrong without him buried deep inside him. He knots the condom, drops it over the edge of the bed without looking and Sidney hopes there’s a trash can there so he won’t step on it at any point.

“Nah,” he decides, stretching out next to Sidney. “My dreams much more interesting. Involve Stanley Cup and naked Grande Ballet dancers.”

He punches him in the belly, but not as hard as he could, and he spends a few minutes kissing over his abdomen to make it up to him. It’s pointless to be doing when they’re both too freshly wrung out for it to actually lead to anything, but Alex makes appreciative noises that Sidney likes to hear anyway, so it’s probably not too much of a waste of time.

Sidney leans over him to fish his cell phone out of his pocket, and he may or may not deliberately squish Alex into the mattress underneath himself as he texts his dad to let him know he’s crashing at Alex’s for the night. He has to make himself misspell a few words, because his parents will disprove of him being drunk but they’d never make him drive home if he is. When he’s done he tosses the phone onto Alex’s nightstand, wiggling off of him. The bed’s too narrow to house both of them comfortably and Sidney squishes himself against the wall.

“Now shut up, we sleep.”

Sidney would love to punch him, which is why it’s embarrassing when he does as Alex asks instead.

||

When he wakes up he’s still tucked up against the wall, back to Alex who’s taking over almost the whole bed, snoring loudly and rattling the pictures off the wall. He’s in an uncomfortable position but the tension he’s always carried in his shoulder is almost gone. He rolls them a little, to be sure.

He pokes Alex, wanting to make him roll over or something, but instead he wakes up, cracking an eye at him.

“This was a bad idea,” Sidney announces, rolling onto his side so he can watch Alex better. The wall is cool on his back.

Alex blinks slowly, stretches with another bone rattling moan like those are all the fucks he gives about what Sidney might or might not think. “Good morning.”

He rolls his eyes. “Good morning. Your host parents are gonna wonder what the hell I’m doing here.”

“I tell you, they not here right now.” Alex reaches out sideways, grabbing Sidney’s hip. “Shut up, get over here.”

He would protest being jerked around because he really is completely over being manhandled by Russians but Alex pulls him onto himself so that Sidney settles with his thighs bracketing his hips. Alex digs a hand into his hair, pulling him down so he can kiss over his neck and shoulders leisurely and Sidney tilts his head to let him.

Sidney is a teenager and therefore should not be surprised by how immediately his body is into this so early in the morning, but “I have skate at eight, we can’t . . .”

“Skip it. You win game, right? Play hard, deserve break.”

That sounds like Alex and Sidney makes a face, pushing off of his chest. “I can’t. It’s part of my routine. I miss this, everything’s thrown off and I just . . .”

“Remember last time routine thrown off?”

Sidney squints down at him, and Ovechkin leans up for another kiss, one that Sidney allows but draws back from quickly because why the hell would Alex remember when he doesn’t.

“When I take your seat, in English. That work out good, right?”

Sidney really can’t complain about the end result, not with Alex spread out underneath him and looking both completely fucked out and ready to go again.

“Yeah, but . . .” he starts, then has to stop because, yeah. _Honesty_ should probably be a thing between them at this point. “That’s different. That was English, and this is _hockey_.”

“It be fine,” Alex says. “You one of best players I seen, much better than at English. One optional skate isn’t world ending.”

He can’t stop his eyebrow from creeping upward as he leans forward, teasing his lips over Alex’s with a hint of a smile. “ _One_ of?”

Alex meets his eyes and grins. “Well, you play with Evgeni.”

Sidney shoves at his shoulder, laughing in a way that feels incredibly stupid with how unselfconscious he is about it. “Fuck you.”

“Mmmm, you first,” he agrees, arching his hips against Sidney, and he most certainly does not feel his heart come to a shuddering stop at that, and he doesn’t groan at all when Alex pulls away, making a face.

“Gotta piss, first,” he decides, and Sidney rolls off to the side, curling around the warm spot in the bed that Alex leaves behind as he runs to the bathroom.

He spends a lot of time laughing when Alex steps on the used condom on his floor, cursing and hopping on one foot as he tries to get it unstuck.

When Alex comes back to bed Sidney’s mostly just staring at the ceiling trying to decide how exactly he feels about this whole thing because unreasonably happy isn’t something he’s gonna accept without checking its teeth just a little bit.

“Stop thinking,” Alex demands, standing beside the bed, and Sidney rolls his eyes up to him before snorting. He’d never imagined what Alex’s post sex sleep hair looked like but it’s sorta typical Alex that it looks exactly like his hair as he’s seen it every other time.

“I think that’s your shtick,” he replies after just watching him for a few seconds. Alex makes a ridiculous face, crawling on top of him until Sidney worms his way off to the side just a little bit.

He’s not as careful prepping him this time, but that probably makes sense since he doesn’t feel like he needs it that much. And since he’s not gonna be skating tonight it’s probably okay to do this again. That’s how he justifies how badly he wants it, at least to himself when Alex’s fingers are deep inside him, teasing over that spot that turns him into a quivering mass of feeling and sensation, makes him gasp in a really loud, embarrassing way.

It’s almost funny how hard Alex works to not trap him, not push him down too much with his body, and there’s incoherent gratitude mingling into his moans. Even when Alex pushes inside of him — and it’s better this time, the adjustment period is less and Sidney is just more _ready_ , whatever that means — he seems to be holding himself up so that they’re barely touching, pulling Sidney in for kisses that feel like they mean more than they did before, close as they are. He can feel Alex basically falling apart inside of him and that’s weird, he’s not really sure what to do about it except just cling to Alex and hang on.

Sidney comes across both their bellies in such short order it’s almost embarrassing, but it’s Alex and Alex is ridiculous.

“Sidney,” he laughs, even though his voice sounds wrecked. “Is not polite, you know, finish so . . .” and Sidney has to shove his tongue in his mouth to shut him up. He probably could make a joke about how quick Alex comes once he does that, but all he does is moan and shove him off of himself once they’re both done, sprawling over the sweaty sheets and just laying there before it starts all over again.

The rest of the morning is spent in bed, it feels ridiculously indulgent to Sidney to just stay there in the warm cocoon with Alex, making out and rubbing off against each other until the whole room reeks of sweat and sex and he has to take a shower or risk smelling like this for the rest of his life, Alex caked deep inside his pores.

His body aches in a million different places, ways he’s not used to it aching but it feels just as fulfilling as the burn of a long workout and he lets himself enjoy it as he washes off with Alex’s body wash, Alex’s shampoo.

His body wash is horrible actually, it smells like a cliché, so he uses water and his fingernails to dig the smell of Alex out of his skin before staggering back into the bedroom, drying himself off with some crazily poufy towel before pulling on his shirt from yesterday, stealing a pair of Alex’s sweat pants that pool around his feet with centimeters to spare.

Alex takes a shower next and while he’s gone Sidney rummages around the fridge, trying to find something that he’s allowed to eat inside there. He ends up coming up with a bottle of kefir that’s not expired yet and some mostly unmoldy raspberries, blending them together in the space aged blender into a passable smoothie. He checks his messages while it blends, a little bit of shit from either Flower or Max, he really can’t tell which, along with an assortment of “???????” from Geno. He replies to all of them before pouring two glasses, setting them on the counter. When Alex comes in Sidney is sitting at the counter drinking his, talking to Patch and apologizing copiously for missing skate.

“I’m sorry, Coach. I just didn’t feel right this morning, it was better to rest than push and make it worse. I’ll be fine for the pregame tomorrow, I promise.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Sidney Crosby?”

He makes a face, nodding his head at the other glass for Alex. “I’m sorry. I needed the rest, but I’ll be in early tomorrow to make it up.”

“Sidney, Sidney, Sidney,” Patchett grumbles good naturedly. “It was optional, but I’m gonna put you through your paces tomorrow so don’t overdo it tonight too, okay? I already had this talk with the rest of the guys.”

They covered for him, even though only Geno hopefully knew what was really going on.

He loves his team.

“Yeah, okay. Sorry. And. Thanks, Patch.”

“Thank Dan, he’s the one who seems to think you’re still allowed to be a teenager or something.”

When he hangs up Alex is leaning over the counter, watching him curiously.

“You made me lie to my coach, I hope you’re pleased.”

“Had no complaints when I woke up.”

Sidney blushes down onto his collarbone. “You are a horrible person. Now drink that, it’s a kefir and raspberry smoothie. Don’t make that face, you should really drink it, trust me.”

Alex takes a drink with a lot more skepticism than Sidney really thinks it warrants. “You _cooking_ for me, too? Now I gotta keep putting out.”

Sidney does a spit take while Alex laughs his head off.

“Okay,” he agrees, wiping his mouth off, enjoying the look of amusement on Alex’s face. “Yeah, okay. But we need to get homework done first, I have another game tomorrow.”

“You look hot in my clothes,” Alex teases before dancing his way into the living room.

Studying with Ovechkin is rapidly becoming a problem, because he’s handsy and seems to think that for some reason just because they’re . . . something. Whatever-ing. Together, that should mean he’s allowed to forget about doing homework and just demand shit like, all the time. And Sidney actually has a vested interest in passing his classes, no matter how much he likes doing this with Alex.

That’s another thing he’ll never understand, how he can spend two hours poring over a lab report while Alex can spend those same two hours playing with his shoelaces and staring into space before scribbling something down on the paper in five minutes and yet he somehow ends up with decent grades. It makes his brain hurt when he tries to comprehend it.

They end up in the living room, sprawled all over each other as they try and work through their respective homework. Well, Alex ends up sprawled all over Sidney and Sidney ends up tolerating it, even though he has to hold him down and blow him before he’ll leave him alone long enough to get work done.

He’s definitely getting better at it, he thinks.

They waste the rest of the day playing NHL 11 on the Xbox, Alex shit talking and jostling and teasing Sidney about how truly awful he is at all of those things. When Greg and Kristen come home they’ve mostly managed to air out the house, and the smell of sex is overpowered by the smell of burned grilled cheese that Alex tried and then failed to make for them.

When he gets home that evening his parents are both watching him curiously. He just offers them a wan smile like maybe he’s still hung over or something. “I should get some sleep, game tomorrow,” he offers as he climbs the stairs, and Taylor is the one who says it, even though everyone is wondering.

“You okay, Sid?”

He pauses, and the smile doesn’t feel even a tiny bit out of place when he flashes it at her, ruffling her hair and making her swat at him irritably.

“Everything’s great, actually.”


	9. Chapter 9

Sunday is one of those awkward days that the team doesn’t like to play on because their whole weekend is taken up with practice and not going out and getting drunk on Saturday and all the things that they would like to be doing most the time.

It’s completely unheard of for Sidney to miss a skate, even optional and even after a win, so the locker room explodes when he comes in.

“What did Ovie _do_ to you?” Jordy demands before he’s even dropped his bag, and while Sidney blushes and tries not to meet Geno’s eyes Max fills in with “Bets are split that he tied you to a bed and beer bonged you until you couldn’t move or that he sucked out all your hockey powers and that took time.”

An honest to god spit take and coughing fit later he’s shaking his head, brushing off their questions. “It got a little bit out of hand,” he admits, because it’s true. “Alex doesn’t . . . he doesn’t take no for an answer, or not easy anyway, and.” He should probably stop before he says too much. “Ask Geno, he knows.”

Attention diverts to Geno and he can breathe in peace, pulling on his gear as quick as he can and grateful that Ovechkin didn’t leave any marks on him that can’t be passed off as hockey bruises. Attention doesn’t drift back to him because as amusing as his little missed skate was he’s really not all that interesting.

He feels pretty good, actually. Even factoring in the lingering discomfort from the sex as he skates his laps, warms up and scrimmages and drills. He doesn’t get called out on it, but Colby knows how he skates and keeps shooting him glances that ask him what’s up. He shrugs like he can’t answer, even though the fact is that he _won’t_.

Geno doesn’t ask, doesn’t even broach the subject and Sidney’s incoherently grateful because Geno probably knows _exactly_ what he’s skating off.

True to his word Patchett runs Sidney a little harder than the rest, checking him out, and by the end of the practice he’s barely feeling a twinge. Dan just sits on the sidelines and watches him and Sidney tries to ignore it because he promised Dan being friends with Alex wasn’t gonna throw off his game.

“Okay, guys.” Patchett calls them to the bench before dismissal, earnest and leaning forward on his elbows to get in all their faces. “Game tonight’s the Centurions. They’ve got a good first line and not a whole lot going on in the back end, it shouldn’t be that big of a deal but I hate being made to look stupid, okay? So nothing sloppy or thoughtless out there. I want you to go home and _rest_ , you got me?” He’s so obviously not staring at Sidney that he might as well be pointing.

It’s a solid line of eagerly nodding heads. Patchett rubs at the bridge of his nose. “No sick or hung over or dead excuses gonna be accepted tonight, so keep it easy.”

When they’re dismissed it’s all hurrying into the locker room so they can get a few hours of rest before the game, just like requested and also because the Centurions have a habit of being both brilliant and hopeless at turns, boom or bust, and no one can exactly predict which one of the two they’re gonna end up with.

Sidney goes home and does what he was supposed to be doing all along, takes a nap and then makes himself a pregame pb&j sandwich, proper brands for everything, munching while he goes over his notes on their defense, rewatches some tape on Anderson to remind himself of where he’s easiest to score on and just generally burrows himself down into pregame ritual and preparation. He’s messed up his routine and he’s worried, _paranoid_ is what Colby would call it, that he’s gonna pay for it.

He gets a text from Alex as he’s suiting up before the game, a simple _good luck ))))_ that has him shaking before he switches off his phone and tosses it into his bag, because he can’t be distracted.

Things start off steadily in the first and second, they’re all skating well and the Centurions are matching them enough that it’s a valid contest. Anderson is actually awake right from the very beginning, blocking what defense lets through, and Sidney lets Flower and Tanger worry about their defense as he focuses on getting in there.

Third period doesn’t go their way; Cowick gets one in on high glove side almost right off the bat and about ten minutes later Winchester manages something that’s low and dumb but counts just as much as a goal that’s not mind numbingly stupid.

Sidney’s on the bench when Colby and his line crash the net, chipping one in off an assist from Cooke, but it’s too little and too late. It’s not even really _enough_ of anything to count as momentum, and it goes down as their one act of defiance before they’re taken down 3-1. It’s a tight, irritating loss that shouldn’t, by all accounts, have happened. Patchett gives them nearly the same speech he did before the game, only this time they feel stupid hearing about how he believes that they could beat them because they _didn’t_ , and it’s not so much ironic as just deeply guilt inducing. Dan doesn’t say much of anything, arms crossed and standing at Patch’s shoulder, scanning each of them in turn like he’s making a list of their flaws to cover with them later.

If Financial Management doesn’t work out for him he’d probably make a really phenomenal coach. Or intervention specialist.

There’s nothing leveled at any individual player; it wasn’t so much a failure of a single person as the whole team being off, but Sidney still sits extra silent, hands clenched between his knees as Patchett promises notes for the next practice so they can review what happened.

He’s the _Captain_ , he’s not allowed the same indulgences as Alex and somehow he either forgot that, or let the other boy convince him that he is allowed, and that’s crazy. The rest of the changing period is spent in quiet reflection, even Max and Flower aren’t causing any sort of shit while everyone sorts through what’s going on and try to decide what they think about this loss, what they’re gonna say to cope with it inside their own heads.

Sidney looks at his phone when he’s back in clothes, checking his messages. His parents and Taylor headed home without him, but he knows his mom’s gonna be sitting up waiting for him as long as he needs her to because she’s always been at the table with cocoa and a comforting shoulder ever since he put on his first jersey and then promptly lost his first game, which is not at all what the narrative is supposed to be.

There’s more from Alex than from his family, ones that make it sound like maybe he was in the crowd again, though Sidney hadn’t been looking for him and he hadn’t done anything ridiculous to make himself obvious.

 _anderson has bad blind spot on left_ says the first.

 _skating off gotta stretch it out sid. muscles not used to it yet )))))_

 _i take zhenya away see what he do to defense. better with us ahahahaha_

The last one came in just before Sidney turned his phone on.

 _bad luck :(((( will be better_

He slams his phone into his bag because damned if he’s gonna let Alex be his own personal pep squad or something, it’s stupid. Especially when he kept him away from skate and . . .

His spine stiffens, ramrod straight but. No, no. Alex isn’t that devious, isn’t gonna use sex for anything except what it is. He’s overestimating him or something, he’s just really not that clever.

Everyone clears off pretty quick; it’s still Sunday and also a game like that doesn’t deserve a party, doesn’t deserve anything but extra skates and some three on ones and they want to be out of the way before Sidney decides that now is the perfect time to drag all of them back out there and somehow will them into being a better team. Geno sits quietly beside him, shooing even Colby out to just hang out on the bench near Sidney and fiddle with the tape on his stick. It doesn’t look like it needs the attention but he can’t critique his attention to detail.

He spares a sudden bitter thought for how Ovechkin could probably do it, could bring his massive personality and somehow force the team to be better purely through that. He’s halfway convinced that’s what happened to the Monuments anyway, it’s not like adding one great player, even one as unusual as him, could possibly take a team from near the bottom of the league to a comfortable middle point like has actually happened.

He’s halfway got himself convinced that he can somehow blame all of this on Alex, except that guy’s never seemed distracted on the ice, never seemed hung up on a single damn thing.

“He probably isn’t doing this just to sabotage the team, right?” he asks Geno, and he jerks his head up, looking confused for a second.

Not everyone lives in his head, he realizes. “Al . . . Ovechkin. He’s not doing this to fuck with me, right?”

He takes several moments to answer, and Sidney doesn’t rush him because honesty is important to him.

“He is not that player,” he says finally.

Sidney leans on his elbows, watching with an intent expression, like Geno’s explaining nuclear fission. He sighs and continues.

“He not think about other people’s heads. Unless he cause concussion. But he not a psychic player, more a physical one. If he want you out? He check, make sure you out long time. Sanja is . . . not thoughtful.” His hands weave around, trying to explain what he can’t quite get into English.

Which is unnecessary, Sidney gets what he’s saying. What he’s saying is that Alex didn’t do any of this to mess with him. If Sidney’s off, if Sidney’s making bad choices and screwing things up it’s entirely on his own head. This is as much a relief as it is disgusting to realize, because it’s something that’s easy enough to fix, in the long run.

“Thanks,” he says after a long pause while they just sit there and think silently in their own languages and it sorta works because Geno’s never needed English to be there for Sidney before.

When he gets home his mom is there, she follows him down to the basement and sits on the stairs with his cocoa going cold next to her as he slams his street ball into the washer until he can finally see straight.

||

Monday isn’t fun but it’s not really bad, either. It’s one loss, and not a serious one and hockey’s as much a game of opportunity as anything else. No one really holds it against them, or at least not too bad, because even in a town as obsessive about hockey as this one they understand about statistics.

It’s a little less understanding come Friday when they lose to the Leafs 3-2 in overtime. Sidney doesn’t get any texts from Alex after that game, but he’s waiting outside the locker room when they get out. Sidney’s weirdly, incoherently grateful that he didn’t come in, that he let the team stew it out between themselves without forcing his presence in like a speck of irritant in the cogs. He shouldn’t be surprised; the one thing in the world that Alex takes seriously is hockey, he’s filled with incoherent and bubbling glee about the game in a way that Sidney just _can’t be_ , in the same way he’s not gonna get any taller or suddenly develop blue eyes. It doesn’t mean anything except that they’re _not the same person_ , and when Alex gets wild and loud with a loss Sidney gets quiet and even more serious.

“Should I not be comforting you?” Alex asks, hands on Sidney’s waist in the empty space of his too big house, and Sidney shakes his head. Last thing he would ever want or accept is sympathy.

“I should have stayed late,” he admits. “After the game. I should have stayed and worked harder. My. My progress isn’t what I want it to be, I shouldn’t have come over here.”

They end up shooting pucks in Alex’s back yard, not talking but just sharing space in a way that feels nice and professional and weird as hell. He’s not sure what they are; it’s not like he has any experience with any of this, even if ‘this’ wasn’t some sort of messed up something that no one involved has bothered to define or set up. That’s good, because Sidney enjoys not being any more insane than he already is, and he’s not sure his brain could withstand the idea of dating Alex or anything so structured. Meke trails around their legs but luckily stays out of the way of the pucks, and the only time Alex touches him is a slap on the shoulder when he shoves his shoes on before he leaves.

||

It actually takes him until Tuesday morning for the vague, disassociated panic to start hitting him full force. It starts off as just nothing much of anything, a sort of foreboding that grows the whole way to school until he walks into the doors and suddenly can’t really catch his breath properly. Somewhere between walking in the doors and English it hits him that whatever this is, it’s a hell of a lot more complicated than it should be because he’s looking forward to seeing Alex and that’s just . . .

He doesn’t even really _look forward_ to seeing his team, so that’s just all sorts of _wrong_.

Making it to English seems like it might very well be something that’s impossible for him to achieve, because all he wants to do is turn back around, go to his car and drive to the rink and just skate until he can’t feel his legs underneath him anymore.

Like orgasm, but less messy.

Instead he stumbles his way towards class, legs working on autopilot, and he’s pretty sure he blows past Colby a little harder than he strictly speaking needs to, but he really just needs to get to class so that he doesn’t have a meltdown in the middle of the hallway.

He had one of those last year when they lost a tournament, it’d be bad to repeat the experience over something as stupid as feelings and Ovechkin.

No, Sidney is not freaking out because he’s having feelings. He’s not that insane. Sidney is freaking out because he’s having feelings for _Ovechkin_ , and that’s 100% worth freaking out over. He’s pretty sure anyone would be, in his place.

Somehow they went from rivals to something considerably messier, and Sidney’s pretty sure he was there for the whole thing but for the life of him he also can’t remember exactly how the hell it actually _happened_.

Sidney’s got his fist in his mouth, freaking out and biting down, and he’s pretty sure that it hurts except he can’t feel much of anything except the way his breath is catching his throat and choking him.

A hand closes around his elbow and he stops himself from screaming only because his fist is jammed into his mouth, but he does bite down enough to draw a tiny bit of blood from one knuckle, hitting his tongue and making him gag as he’s suddenly manhandled into an empty classroom.

Fuck. It’s like the beginning of the year all over again.

He ducks his head, already anticipating being pushed around and mocked because he just has that _look_ that seems to beg for it, but instead of being hit or shoved there’s a hand tangling in his hair and he’s never heard of hair pulling being part of a smack down. It’s not _manly_ enough, or something.

“Shhhhh,” Alex mutters, pushing his head back so that he can press a quick kiss to his lips, and without thinking about it Sidney leans up and kisses him back, pushing into his hand so he has some control over what’s happening.

“Alex, what?” he asks, pulling away after a second, licking his lips.

“You freaking out,” he points out needlessly, fingers rough against his jaw line as he strokes from ear to chin and then back up. “Stop it. What we have, is good. Not worth freaking out over, Sidney. _Sid_.”

“What _do_ we have?” Sidney asks, and he feels so ridiculous for saying it, even more when Alex laughs and pushes at his shoulder before pulling him in and kissing him again, all conflicting body language.

Alex kisses over his cheekbone, down to catch his lips and silence him for a moment. “Ey, ey. Sid. _Sidney_ ,” he mumbles, voice even thicker from this close in. “Does it need name? Can’t we just enjoy?”

He wants to say a million things, something about how if it’s gonna be fucking up his mind and routine this bad then yes, it needs a name. It needs something he can call it when he’s freaking the hell out inside his own head, but then Alex kisses him again, pulling him in so deep that Sidney can’t do anything but throw the panic out and just hang on, making sounds into his mouth.

Alex somehow has some sort of psychic Sidney Freak-Out super power. He kisses him until there isn’t enough space inside his head to be freaking out any more.

It probably isn’t a safe form of damage control, but very little about Ovechkin is safe. Or sane. He’s gradually coming to something resembling peace with it.

It’s something he’s never considered, previous to meeting Ovechkin, but now that he knows him Sidney can’t get the idea that he might be losing his mind out of his head.

Well, he’s always heard that being aware of it is probably a pretty good indicator that maybe he’s not going completely off the deep end, skates off in the neutral zone and skidding in his socks across ice like that’s good enough, but he can’t shake the feeling some days that that’s exactly what he’s doing. He’s undirected, slipping and sliding and completely unable to make more than the most rudimentary corrections to his course.

That’s the uncertainty of caring about a character as off kilter as Ovechkin, and he’s heard that from Geno once or twice, but that’s convincing him even more that he’s crazy for risking it in the first place.

The point is that he’s probably losing his mind, but if that’s the case apparently it’s not as bad as the movies and books make it look. They talk like it’s all raving and foaming at the mouth and, like, hallucinations of bunnies in top hats or something, and he’s not having any of that. More than anything he’s just strangely content, like things in the world are shaping up exactly how he’d like them to be.

They’re playing the Cavaliers on their own ice on Saturday, but Alex and the Monuments have an away game with the Bullies so they don’t see much of each other during the later part of the week. Alex leaves Thursday night and Sidney gets his homework for him in English and doesn’t miss his presence at lunch at all, even though without him there he’s like a gaping hole in the conversation that everyone talks around.

They win but it’s unremarkable. None of them play exceptionally or anything but it’s enough that they don’t suck, and Sidney spends most of his time on the ice trying to figure out what it is about the line that feels so off until he realizes that it’s him, that he probably misses Alex just a little bit even though it’s not like he even comes to any of their games or anything. He just missed him at school, missed him at lunch and now it’s a part of his routine that’s been knocked off.

They win on a shootout goal, and Sidney contributes an assist to their only goal in regular time but it’s all just a tiny bit off.

He’s sitting on his bed reading the last few pages of vocab that Madam Therot assigned when his phone rings next to him. He answers without really looking at it.

“Sidney! Hotel is lovely, have buffet at breakfast. Zhenya tell me you usually room alone, how you stand it?”

He smiles despite himself, squashing his phone to his ear while he shuffles his papers. “I’m okay being alone, I don’t need a posse.”

“Is not posse, is _crew_ , how I know slang more than you?”

“I don’t spend all my free time watching E!,” Sidney says, smiling despite himself. “How’d the game go?”

“We lose, it a tough game. What you wearing?”

“Sweatpants and a t-shirt.” He shuffles over to his list. “Hey, what do you know about French?”

“Fries and kisses. What about under that?”

“Not gonna help, then. Sorry, listen. I have vocab I need to have done before Monday and this unit is kicking my ass.”

He can practically feel the sigh that Alex huffs out rattling through his bones. “Sidney, I trying phone sex and is not working if the other person not participating.”

It takes him a few minutes to dig his phone out of the pile of hoodies and fleeces he fumbles it into. “You. Shut up. That’s a horrible plan.”

“You know how many times you tell me that?”

“. . . You have a lot of horrible ideas.”

“All my ideas are wonderful. Deserve Nobel and plaque.”

Sidney cannot imagine a world in which Alex wins a Nobel, but he’s pretty sure that he wouldn’t want to live in it. “Alex, seriously. Remember the dirty text messages?” He’d tried sending them to Sidney when he was away playing a rematch with the Cubs last week. He’d only realized what was going on when he handed his phone to Geno and told him that Alex was accidentally texting him on Sidney’s phone. Geno had dropped the phone so fast he’d almost cracked the screen, and then Sidney’d ended up needing to call Alex for a translation of his spelling. He’d been unable to make eye contact with Geno for the rest of the weekend, and it was just a good thing the game was already over or they would have lost even worse.

“Is not my fault you horrible at long distance relationships.”

“It’s not long distance, you’re gone for a weekend. That shouldn’t be a hardship.”

“ _Eighteen_ , Sidney.”

He grunts, “Yeah, no. So, I think I should go so I can call Max and he can yell at me in French.”

“Sidney, Talbot probably getting laid.”

He looks at his clock. It’s 3 pm on a Sunday. “. . . Probably.”

“We could be, if you take off sweatpants.”

“Yeah, no.”

“They not good on your ass, Sidney. How many times I gotta tell you?”

Sidney looks down, wiggles his toes under the too long hem and fuckit, it’ll get Alex to hang up faster. “They’re yours.”

He hears Alex’s voice catch even though the crappy cell connection and yeah, okay. Maybe he smirks a little bit because he sorta takes it as a victory that he can make Alex do that. “The ones I wore that day.”

“I wonder where those go,” and there’s no mistaking the rasp in Alex’s voice, the pleasure in knowing Sidney’s wearing something of his. Sidney grins, tight and determined. “Say more.”

“Um.” He searches for anything and ends up with “They’re too long, though. I can’t see my feet under them or anything, and I sorta trip a lot when I wear them.”

“Siiiiiiid.”

“Hey, shut up or I’ll hang up. Um. They’re uh. They’re really soft, though. I mean, I still think they’re really questionable looking and I sorta judge you for owning them but they are really comfy, so I can get it. I guess. You still have horrible shirts, though.”

Alex is starting to make soft sounds into the phone, sorta deeper and harsher than his voice normally is, and Sidney makes a face because he hopes no one can hear over the connection. “Why you hate my clothes, Sid?”

“Um.” He blinks a few times, imagines all the things he’s seen Alex in and decides. “They’re dumb, most the time. And, um. Because when you’re wearing them you’re not naked? Does that work?”

He gets a small “Mmmmmm, hum?” in response, so he keeps going. “And. Uh. I sorta like having your pants. I mean, it’s dumb because they’re too big and I have to hide them when I do laundry because my mom would know they’re not mine, and it’d probably be weird if they knew I had some of your clothes. I mean. There’s no reason for me to have them at all, and really not to be wearing them . . .”

“You should take them off.”

His eyes dart to his door. “Uh, okay?” He sets the phone down and goes to lock his door, but Alex’s voice comes over the line as he walks back, still wearing everything.

“Where you go?” Alex demands as he picks up.

“I had to lock the door, dumbass. And um. Okay, I’m gonna take them off, hang on a second.” He goes to put the phone down again, but Alex’s voice stops him.

“Sidney, kinda need you to keep talking, okay?”

He’s never gonna understand the concept behind this whole thing. “Um, but then how am I gonna take my pants off?”

“Have two hands, right? Both still work? One for holding the phone, one for something else?” Alex’s voice gets low and playful, teasing. “Maybe jerk off for me, eh?”

The blush that covers his cheekbones is ridiculous considering that no one can hear or see him. He’s been naked with Alex a lot, and. “Um, okay. I. Uh. Well, I mean I could but that might be weird.”

The sound of flesh hitting flesh comes over the line. “Sid, I just smack myself in forehead, okay? Because I asking something very simple, okay? How about this, you just stop talking and start making nice noises for me, okay?”

“. . . My parents are downstairs.”

“ _Sidney_.” Alex is clearly starting without him because he knows that sound, knows the way his voice kicks up when he likes what’s happening.

“Do I have to, like. Tell you what I want to be doing to you? Because I’d probably be really bad at that.”

A bone rattling groan is the only response. It’s a little overplayed but Sidney knows what it means, it’s the sound Alex makes right before he kisses him to shut him up so he closes his teeth over his response, slipping his hand into his pants and making a sighing sound that’s probably really stupid sounding except for how it makes the line go silent with anticipation. He repeats it, a little louder, then again when his dick perks up and really starts getting into the sounds Alex makes in response.

It’s a call and answer of incoherent sounds for a little while, grunts and throaty moans until “Sid?”

 _Jesus_ , Alex sounds completely on the wrong side of wrecked.

“Yeah?” he replies after a second, not even trying to hide the hitch his voice.

“I like. Like it more when you doing this.”

He yips a little bit at that, it’s an embarrassing sound but then he manages “I like it better, too.”

He knows Alex comes then because he knows the sound Alex makes when he comes, knows how his voice shifts octaves in a graceless slide before he’s reduced to grunts so deep they’re nearly soundless.

Sidney comes into his fist, biting his lip as he whimpers out his own orgasm and is rewarded with another fresh groan from Alex.

“I miss you,” Alex murmurs after several minutes of silence pass between them.

Sidney looks down at his hand that isn’t Alex’s and for once, he agrees.

||

It doesn’t help at all when they lose again on Sunday. He very nearly lies down and lets Cooke skate over his throat when they lose to the fucking Freeze.

The whole team hates to take a loss, but he’s the Captain, so he carries the loss for all of them, whether they want him to or not.

He rips at his tape a little more violently than necessary, throwing it away and starting to work his socks off.

Jordy watches him, sighs long and loud and then elbows Colby. “For fucks sake, he’s not happy when we lose, he’s not happy when we win, what does it take?”

“Who _is_ happy when we lose?” he demands, because he’s in a locker room with a bunch of hyper competitive athletes. There’s no way that any of them are okay with it.

“I wish Ovie was here again,” Jordy mumbles wistfully and Sidney stands in one fluid motion, stopping himself from shoving his finger in his face only because they sorta have to stay friends after this; they’re on the same team.

“Alex has nothing to do with any of this,” he snaps, advancing until Jordy stumbles back despite the relative size difference. “This is about our team, and about me not being _good enough_ and he has nothing to do with any of that.”

“It’s not all on you,” Flower reminds him, slicing through the atmosphere with the trill of accent. “Losing sucks, but you can’t, like, Captain the puck into the goal, Sid. It doesn’t work that way.”

“I know,” he says, the admission tearing out of his throat like barbed wire, like words he doesn’t want to say. “But it should.”

He doesn’t miss the look that they all share but it doesn’t matter. He has to fix this, somehow.

The rest of the week is spent skating, opening until closing, and playing with Taylor on their backyard rink when the rink closes. His little sister’s not quite up to the caliber of play but she’s gonna be there pretty soon and he sorta loves how cool that is, how proud he feels of her when she runs the puck down the ice and actually listens to his suggestions for once in her life, pigtails bouncing when she dekes around and takes a shot.

Saturday he skates with Geno and Marc and Tanger a little bit before practice, various permutations of 2 on 2, O vs. D and split teams. He’s never clicked with Marc on the ice the way he has with Tanger, but it feels good to stretch himself and try something hard, something he’s not good at just so he can use it as practice for getting better.

They play to five, and Geno gets the first off a nice, high pass from Tanger. Marc manages to block the next one on his foot, and Sidney recovers to take it down ice for their response. Tanger checks him hard, an open ice move he’s been needing to practice and Sidney goes down, passing sloppy to Marc who’s not where he expects him to be. Geno and Tanger end up winning 5-3 with Tanger flinging himself all over Geno while they laugh, then they switch up and run some more plays.

It’s quiet and nearly somber, a little shit-talking but mostly just the sounds of skates and quiet gliding, the slap of stick and puck against the ice.

Everyone files in for practice a half hour later, and they play good but it’s still quiet and unexceptional. Patchett runs them through enough that Sidney’s trembling just a little bit by the end, but it feels more solid than it has in weeks and that’s a relief he can’t properly express, to be back to playing more like himself as he goes along.

They have a game one town over on Sunday, it takes them out and it’s good to get some road experience two weeks before the Invitational.

It’s not like a miraculous comeback. They’ve spent the whole season playing good, solid hockey — and three in a row isn’t precisely an end of the world losing streak unless you’re Sidney — so more than anything it’s just a return to status quo. Sidney ends up with two goals, Geno with one and Neal and Colby with assists. Sidney’s playing like himself, like he’s a man possessed, one who’s been working his ass off to bring his game back up and it shows. There’s no single person on a team, but they all know how to pick up and click on a streak and they all feed off each other and it’s pretty damn glorious when Flower completes the game with a shutout.

The bus ride back is filled with joking and throwing shit and celebrating, piling on Sidney until they get sent to their seats by Patchett and Dan with vague threats of turning the damn bus around.

“Sorry, Dads,” Talbot chirps up from the back of the bus and everything is so perfect and completely _glorious_.

“Okay, dinner,” Colby announces when they get back.

Marc ducks out citing not getting his homework done and drags Jordy along with him by default, Dutchy and Cooke head home but most of the team ends up going and Dan slips Sidney some cash even though he must know they’re gonna end up at a horrible little diner that they all love for the ridiculous waffle fries and which doesn’t match their diets at all.

They take over adjoining booths in the far back, smashed up so tight with each other that moving their arms results in more than a fair share of elbows in faces and knees jammed into hips but the burgers are really awesome and Sidney actually takes a few of Max’s fries when he offers them, munching on his turkey sandwich.

“Let’s hear it to the return of the Seabirds!” Flower offers the moment their drinks arrive and even Max takes a break from hitting on their server to raise his soda in a toast, glasses clinking and sticky spills all down their arms and pooling on the table.

“And let’s not see it again!” Tanger agrees, slamming against Sidney until he nearly drops his water.

“Ow.” He shakes the water off his hand, laughs when Geno headlocks Kris and Neal gets tossed out of the booth in the ensuing scuffle, landing hard on his ass with an indignant squeak.

Sidney watches his team and laughs a little awkwardly, but James hitting the floor has him laughing like he can’t even control it, that horrible squeaking bray that means he really can’t get over how hilarious his whole team is, how much he cares about them and their dynamic. It’s all a mutual need sort of thing, codependent in a way that has to be fostered and taken care of.

It’s overwhelming, and not in the Alex way where things get tight in his chest and he can’t quite breathe right and it’s scary but good. It’s in a way where things are easy and open and he knows that he’d do almost anything for these guys, for his family.

“Oh, shit.” TK holds his phone up, pointing it at the table even though the font’s too small to read. “You guys know how the Monuments were playing the Orcas today? Brooks just texted me, apparently Ovie got himself tossed into the box for a hit on one of their guys. He took a run at him almost the second they hit the ice, apparently.” He holds the phone close, presses a few buttons.

It’s not until the exact moment that he realizes that he hasn’t heard from Alex all day that things start slowly and surely falling into place inside his head. It can’t be, Alex wouldn’t be so dumb as to do something like that, and it has to have been someone else . . .

“Oh, _snap_ , it was that asshole you fought, Sidney. He must have run his mouth to someone who could do something about it.”

“I. I have to.” He elbows at Geno. He has to get out. He needs air.

“Shit, you look bad,” and that has to be Max and his gallons of sensitivity coming to the rescue, just in case no one else noticed what exactly he looks like.

“Don’t tell me that fuck face didn’t deserve it. You wouldn’t let us do anything about it, I guess it was down to Alex to defend your honor.” Flower had even offered to come out if he needed the help.

“I. I feel sorta dizzy, I gotta. I need air.” It has the benefit of being true.

He needs air that doesn’t smell like greased eggs. He needs all the air in the _universe_ and there’s not enough inside the building to even make a dent in his lungs. When Geno doesn’t move fast enough Sidney’s crawling over his lap, elbows and knees banging into his chest, the table, rattling the plates and glasses as he scratches his way out. TK responds fast enough that he’s not another casualty of Sidney’s poorly conceived escape plan, and then he’s pushing past their server to get outside.

It’s late, and winter, and _Canada_ and the air hits him like a punch to the chest the second he pushes the door open, little icicles stabbing into his throat and lungs as he gasps. Snowflakes sting over his cheeks, get sucked into his mouth and numb his tongue and the cold covers the way that he hasn’t been outside long enough to be trembling as much as he is.

He’s shaking, shaking completely apart, and then Geno’s there, jamming his own toque onto Sidney’s head and waiting him out.

He doesn’t have a chance of outlasting Geno, not with the handicap of not having a coat, and he leans back against the building, turning his face up towards the snowflakes and dark sky lights.

“It’s Alex,” he says softly, closing his eyes so he can feel the bite of every flake.

“What is?” Geno crosses his arms, leaning against Sidney and for once he’s so desperate that he doesn’t shy away from the casual comfort of it.

Geno isn’t the person to talk about this with. Geno's friends with them both, he’s Sidney’s _best friend_ but he’s the only one Sidney can talk to. He feels like an asshole, putting Geno in the middle like this.

“It’s Alex,” he repeats, unhelpfully. It’s another few seconds before he can say anything else, he feels like how Geno must. English is too much, there’s no way that he can put everything that he needs to into actual words, but he has to try. It’s something that needs to be said.

Something about this . . . _thing_ is making him crazy, sloppy and crazy, and he’s pretty sure it’s not just that he’s getting laid because none of the guys are this dumb and they’re eyes deep in the stereotyped drama of teenage girls most of the time. Sometimes Max and Flower’s lives look like CW dramas, for fucks sake.

“We can’t. We can’t keep doing this, or.” He shoves the heel of his palms into his eyes, melting the flakes on his lashes. He suspects Geno knows, but he has to force himself to say it. He has to make himself clear so that what he has to say later makes sense. “That morning I missed skate, we slept together. I spent the night, we _fucked_.”

“Half of team wish they have that problem,” Geno mutters, and he doesn’t get it. Why doesn’t he get it? It’s so obvious to Sidney that he can’t believe he missed it before, the invisible gorilla.

“I’ve been playing like _shit_ ever since then, and I _can’t keep doing it_. Do you understand, Geno? I can’t keep doing this if that’s what happens, if it makes me this completely fucking crazy, I can’t afford to.”

“Whoa, whoa.” Geno’s hands come up, waving at the air like he can smack what Sidney’s saying out of the air like a psychedelic cartoon. “No, no, _no_. Sid, it. Teams not good for always. Teams bad too, is not any _fault_. We win tonight, Sid!”

“I’m the Captain, I wear the C . . .”

“Team is not one person, you say but not listen! Alex does nothing!”

He’s practically screaming at him, right there in his face and crowding him and Sidney has to close his eyes because he can’t look right now, can’t risk what Geno might see.

“It never meant anything,” he says. It’s a lie, but it’s probably only a lie when talking about him. “Alex doesn’t get hung up on anything. Not me, anyway. I’ll just. I’ll just tell him it has to be over. It has to end, and then I can go back to playing like I’m supposed to.”

Geno’s staring at him, his face is passive and unreadable but when Sidney pulls out his phone, types in a simple text he reaches out, covers it with one of his huge hands.

“No. I can’t stop, but Alex . . . You Captain, but Alex friend too, Sidney. You do face to face, not like coward.”

“I’m not a coward.” His voice feels sandpaper raw, but he holds his phone up so Geno can see the screen — _We have to talk_ — before he hits send, phone beeping when it delivers.

“Not coward.” He sounds like it’s grudging. “But idiot.”

“Not an idiot either,” he sighs, placing his phone in his pocket. “Practical.”

Geno’s just watching him, inscrutable except for how his eyes look like pity. “Is not right word for it.”


	10. Chapter 10

Alex doesn’t get back to him that night. Tomorrow’s Monday, but he can’t do it at school. It’s just. It’s not something that can be said at school, not appropriately. He can’t do that to either one of them.

Avoiding him before class isn’t too hard, and English is solved by hiding out and just not going. He goes off campus for lunch, sitting in his car and eating his turkey and drinking his Gatorade in small, economical movements. Alex must sense something’s up, because he gets at least four texts from the guys, various permutations of _whuts up Ovie asks why u been avoiding him?_.

The only one he gets from Geno says _cant hide fourevr :(((((_.

He’s never seen Geno use one of those faces before, it almost freaks him out more than everything else has.

It takes a little maneuvering but he avoids Ovechkin the rest of the day. It’s not really the mature thing to do, but fuckit. He’s not having this conversation at school, he’s just not.

He makes a beeline for his car, parked in a different section of the lot and almost running to it, keys in his hand. Obviously he can’t keep it up all week, but until he gets it together, knows exactly what he wants to say and _how_ , he can . . .

“You need to talk?”

Sidney screams and almost drops his keys, and Ovechkin pops his head out of the window, staring at him. “Make it hard to talk when you avoiding me, Sidney.”

“I. Get out of my car.”

“No. I miss bus and need ride. Geno already gone.” He looks amused, smiling at him. “Give us lots of time to talk, okay?”

He doesn’t have a choice, but. Well, he actually totally has a choice because there’s always the option of kicking him out of his car but he needs his fingers to not be dislocated. He sighs, throws his bag in the back seat and slides behind the wheel, trying to ignore how the car smells like Alex.

He looks so concerned, and his hand strokes over his neck before squeezing his shoulder, just a light touch that could be ignored by anyone watching except for how Sidney feels it down into the core of his being. “You okay?”

He wants to kiss him so bad, but he just shakes it off. “Yeah, fine. You’re an idiot, by the way.”

“More than usual, though?”

Sidney avoids answering by looking over his shoulder as he backs out. It’s not hard, doesn’t need that much attention but by the time he turns back to shift into drive he’s mostly calm again. “Brooks texted TK. You got yourself thrown out because you just had to take a run at Kessler, eh?”

Ovechkin grabs at him, eyebrows furrowing. “He hurt you, Sid. It serious, I see how it bothers you to say. And my honor offended too, you know. Imply I lose in exchange for blowjob? Who think I that dumb?”

Sidney does not drive his car into the stop sign, because that would be vandalism and the draft board would frown on that. “Shut up,” he hisses. “You can’t just say that sort of thing out loud where anyone can hear you, Jesus.”

“We in your car. Also, is traditional, when man defends honor he gets a kiss and thanks.” Ovechkin’s grin is crooked and stupid looking and Sidney’s torn between throwing a punch and doing what he asks, so he doesn’t move.

“I’m not some . . . some offended _damsel_! Did I ask you to do that? And don’t start, my sister would kill you if you did something like that, too.”

He sighs, leans back and throws his head against the headrest, staring at the ceiling. “Sid, it happen. Was maybe dumb, but I don’t regret that I did.”

“That’s stupid. It’s stupid, Ovechkin. You can’t start taking dumb penalties this close to the Invitational, your team’s gonna be screwed without you.”

“They getting better,” he admits, voice soft and a little lost.

“Alex, I. Thank you. You didn’t have to, and I didn’t ask you to, and if you do it again I will take a kilo of flesh out of your _ass_ , but. The sentiment was there, so thank you.”

He smiles at him, big and open, then elbows him gently. “I do not understand the problem, though. He not even fight _good_ Sidney. You come with me to rink sometime, I teach you how to throw good punch, at least.”

“Yeah, sure,” he offers vaguely, and the rest of the ride is spent with Alex fiddling with his radio presets again, singing along and getting all of the words wrong in a way that makes it clear he’s actually getting them wrong, not making a joke.

Alex is out the door almost the second Sidney pulls in next to the car already there, “Is Kristen’s, don’t park behind, she probably gonna be gone soon.”

He doesn’t put the car in park. Ovechkin leans in, tilting his head. “Sidney? You coming in, right? Not gonna drive me all this way and leave me alone in big house?”

He shouldn’t, but he parks and gets out. “Okay, but I can’t. I have to get to the rink soon, I have some work I want to do.”

“Oh good, I go with you.”

“I. No. No, you won’t be.”

“Sure I will, just gotta get gear. Hi, Kristen! Where is Meke?”

She looks up from the stack of papers on the kitchen table, smiles at him with affection that Sidney can almost feel, because everyone loves Alex. “She’s in the yard, there were interesting smells back there.”

“This Sidney, you remember. I gonna get her.”

“Hello, Sidney. Alex, make sure her paws are clean before you let her in, it’s muddy and the cleaner just came.” She turns her attention to him then, smiling a little less honestly. “Hello, Sidney. What brings you over?”

 _I need to break up with your host kid_ “I. Um. I really don’t know. Ove — Alex needed a ride and he somehow made me come in.” His hands migrate to his pockets, slouching.

“That’s fine. We have fruit on the counter, water in the fridge.” She checks her watch. “Feel free to do whatever; I have to leave in a little while but please make sure Alex eats actual food and not chicken fingers again.”

It’s not his place to watch Alex’s diet, but he just smiles with hypodermic thin lips, nodding. “He’s impressed with them.”

“Tell me about it.” She rolls her eyes, starting to gather her papers. Clicking nails herald Meke and Alex coming in, the big dog wagging her tail sedately, nosing into Sidney’s crotch again before sitting and letting him pet her.

“Alex, Greg’s working overtime, I’m meeting him for dinner and then we’ll be home. Please keep the house standing while we’re gone.” She pecks his cheek and Alex scrunches up his face, faux embarrassment. “Homework before games.”

“I _know_ ,” he replies, walking her to the door like every bit the gentleman, waving her off and then thrusting Sidney against the wall, attacking his mouth.

“I thought she never _go_ ,” he whines, nipping at Sidney’s lips when he doesn’t open to him. “C’mon, I have bruises. You gonna like ‘em.”

He can’t let this happen when he’s gonna be ending this thing, not when he’s doing the right thing for _both_ of them, there’s no way Sidney’s gonna get drafted playing the way he is, Ovechkin will understand because it’s not a big deal.

But instead he lets Alex kiss him for a second, hand in his hair and tugging on the curls behind his ears for a second before he pulls away. “Don’t. We. _Don’t_.”

His brows knit, a really impressive scowl gradually crosses his features but he steps back immediately. “Sid? Is a problem? Bruises not hurt that bad, you kiss them all better.” He leans in, Sidney darts his head away like he’s avoiding a punch instead of a kiss, and he stops. Ovechkin stops because as much as he wants, Sidney _doesn’t_ , and he’s just.

He’s a really good guy, Sidney realizes with a burning pain in his chest, and he likes him probably more than he should, than he can even pretend is healthy.

“I need.” He steps away and Alex lets him, standing lost and alone in the hallway.

“Sid? I. Sidney? What wrong, I do something?” His hands are fisting at his sides, limp like he wants to touch and is restraining himself.

He cares for him so much more than he should. “I. Listen, what we were doing with the . . . we can’t.”

Ovechkin looks like he could not understand less if Sidney switched into Portuguese. “What you mean, Sid?”

“Sidney,” he corrects through the constriction in his chest. “I mean. Monuments and Seabirds, we’re both playing the Invitational in a few weeks, and we can’t. We can’t be fucking when we go against each other. It’s too risky, we won’t be playing right.”

“Say who? I athlete, Sidney. You athlete, nothing compromise that because we both _athletes_ , and . . .”

“I’ve been playing horrible, Alex. I’ve lost three games . . .”

“And then you _win_ again, and you will win next, too. Is how game work!”

Sidney glares, shakes his head because that’s not how it works. He’s not allowed to be inconsistent. “I’ve lost a lot of games since we. We hooked up. I can’t do that, it’s not good hockey, and I gotta. Win more games, or . . .”

“Perfect season like a miracle, you make me compete with _miracle_ , Sidney?” His hands tighten on Sidney’s shoulders and Alex doesn’t pull him in but Sidney can tell how badly he wants to, how much Alex would love to pull him in and hold him against his chest, and he can’t let him. “Sometimes that happen, and it not fault of any one person. Is the game, is how the game works! Games get lost, it happens!”

It should probably mean something that Alex is practically begging him.

It does mean something.

It _can’t_. “Alex, I. It’s just. We’re over, okay? No more fucking, no more. We’re. We’re supposed to be rivals, not . . .”

There were never words for the thing they were doing, and it’s easier that way. He can call it whatever he wants to call it, and that’s. Necessary.

“Fuck, I dunno. Friends with benefits or fuck buddies or just . . . No more. Not of this. And I mean. You never have a hard time hooking up, so you probably won’t even miss it, right?”

Ovechkin goes still, stiff like he’s got embalming fluid in his veins, and then he starts to shake. Each muscle draws up tight and his arm jerks up in a Frankenstein move, finger at the door. “Was not . . .Get out, Sidney.”

He needs to just do as he’s told. He’s pretty sure he’s not even being _sane_ at this point. “I was going to, I just needed to explain that . . .”

“Out. _Now_.”

It occurs to him, a little bit too late, that he’s never seen Ovechkin actually look angry. Legitimately angry, not petulant or annoyed but like he actually might do something that he regrets, the sort of angry where he’s probably not doing any sort of thinking at all.

“Okay,” he says, biting his lip and pushing past him, grabbing his shoes and shoving them on. They’re chafing but he’s not walking far. He doesn’t think Alex tries to stop him, but he doesn’t turn around to check either way.

||

He spends the rest of the evening at the rink, practicing shots until he’s kicked out. Then he goes home, eats reheated dinner, works on his homework on the kitchen table with Taylor because if he doesn’t he’ll probably start thinking a little bit too much and that’s not a good plan.

“Sid?” Taylor looks up, tucking her hair back. “Can you help me with this?”

He scoots closer and it’s fractions, ewwww. “Yeah, um. First you have to reduce them down, see? Like this one, both 15 and 27 are divisible by 3, so you go with that . . .”

He works with her on that for a little bit, and it probably says something for his thought process that he doesn’t even notice that she’s two and a half problems ahead of him until she’s, well. Two and a half problems ahead of him. He looks down, watching her work through it faster than he could.”I. Um.”

“Listen, you were sitting over there and thinking so hard I couldn’t concentrate.” She taps her temple with her pencil, watching him from under her eyelashes. “It’s not school, because you never think that hard about school, so it has to be hockey.”

“It’s not. I think hard about school!”

“Bro,” she sighs, pushing at his shoulder. “You do not. If it’s not hockey it’s not important, unless it means you can’t play hockey. So just. Whatever it is, deal with it somewhere else. You’re making the whole room smell like ‘failure’ and ‘at being a human being’.”

He flicks her ear before he goes back to his own work, puzzling over balanced equations until it’s time for bed, when he can brush his teeth and change.

He checks his phone before he goes to sleep. There’s a series of texts from Geno; he scrolls through them, but they all mostly consist of being mad at him for how much Alex is currently drinking. Later ones seem to focus on the fact that he’s passed out on his carpet and his room smells like vodka.

He has nothing he can say to that, so he turns his phone off and sets it on his nightstand. Everything gets put into place, and he sleeps without any dreams.

||

School isn’t exactly easy or anything. Ovechkin isn’t there, and it sorta makes sense if what Geno kept texting him was true. Geno still sits next to him at lunch like a peace offering even though he doesn’t speak to him at all. The rest of the team picks up on something, but they mostly have the emotional range of a small bag of rocks so they just leave it be with some curious expressions thrown in for good measure.

It’s halfway through lunch when he gets text from . . .

Okay, that’s weird.

“Geno, can you possibly explain to me why Nikita is suddenly texting me? From, I am assuming, Russia?”

Geno shoves some food into his mouth and doesn’t answer.

“Shit, that’s awesome!” Max punches his arm, sneaking a peek at the screen. “Tell the Puppy we say hi!”

Sidney rolls his eyes, opening it out of pure curiosity.

 _Geno tells me you have been idiot. He not always have words he needs in English so he makes me tell you that you must have been left to exposure as a baby_.

He looks over at Geno, confused. It’s obviously an insult, but maybe it carries more weight in Russian.

 _Um, okay. You okay?_

 _Tell Talbot I still not think him and Flower are sexy. Also, you are an idiot, you broke Alex Ovechkin’s heart_.

Nikita’s probably overreacting. He’s _Alex_. It’s totally overreaction.

Practice goes okay, they play a solid line and Sidney manages to not have any feelings while he’s out there. Geno’s hardly looking at him, but he’ll get over it because right now they’re playing _hockey_ , and also once he’s able to look past it he’ll realize that it was for the best, that Sidney did the right thing and everything will work out. They connect with nothing impressive but plenty of just good, hard play. That’s good too, the game was built on good, hard play and he’s okay with it for now as long as they keep winning. And they will, as long as he keeps his head in the game and remembers that this is what’s important. Nothing else.

While he’s on the ice it’s easy to remember that. By the end he’s playing great with Nealer, or at least great enough that Patchett gives them a somber head nod and Dan actually compliments them, patting his helmet as he goes into the locker room.

It feels like going back to normal, and as soon as Ovechkin realizes it, as soon as he sees how good it is for him to be back to where they were he’s gonna be cool with it.

Ovechkin is in his seat on Tuesday, eyes fixed ahead at the chalkboard and Sidney checks him with his hip and smiles. “Hey, you feeling better?”

He turns to look at him, and he looks not really like death at all, but pretty bad anyway. “No. _No_ , Sidney, I not feeling better.”

“Jesus,” Jordy mumbles, leaning over. “What did you do, piss in his Weetabix?”

“Yes, Sidney. What did you do?” Alex demands, turning around to stare at him and Sidney blinks at the expression there, the naked _betrayal_ when Alex should be thanking him for putting things back to normal, for making them sane again.

“I fixed a problem we were having,” he says, voice level because _fuck_ him for making Sidney feel like the bad person when he did exactly what needed to be done so that they could go back to being normal players again.

Jordy looks confused. “You guys were having a problem? I didn’t know; the only time you’ve been cool with each other was recently.”

“And everything’s cool again,” he insists, defying Alex to disagree.

Alex makes a sound, turning back around and Jordy looks at him with huge eyes, shaking his head.

“That doesn’t look cool to me, Sid.”

He stares at the back of Alex’s head, shrugs a little bit. Apparently Alex is always going to confuse him, but that’s fine because they’re back to just being friends again and being confused by his friends is a lot easier than being confused by his boy —

By _Alex_.

Sidney shrugs, slips into his chair and sets about ignoring Ovechkin. It’s not exactly easy, he’s right in front of him and all that, but he’s not gonna give him the satisfaction of thinking about him, or worrying about him, or anything like that.

He did the smart thing, and they’re still . . . not enemies. They’ll get used to it.

He gets about sixteen texts from Nikita and Geno during the next two periods. He figures he can deal with it by talking with Ovechkin in front of Geno, so he’ll see for himself how _totally okay_ everything is.

Except he’s not there at lunch.

“Geno, have you . . .”

“Not seen Alex. Not his babysitter.”

“I guess I’m not the first person to ask?” he mumbles ruefully, sitting next to him with a nervous smile.

“No, you the first.” Geno turns away. A few minutes his phone beeps with more of Nikita filling him in on Alex’s feelings with weird, cryptic threats.

He . . . is never gonna get Russians.

||

School was always one of the worst parts of his day, and that was even before Ovechkin decided to suddenly hate his guts. Now it’s moving from ‘painful’ to other, more worrying realms. Between Alex acting like he would very much enjoy if Sidney would take a long walk off a short pier, Nikita _still_ yelling at him, and Geno being perfect and professional on the ice and otherwise acting like he doesn’t exist, it’s sorta made a move into the ‘if I have to keep going through this I will probably stab someone or something with my stick’ territory.

They win that weekend. It’s only one game, and it’s only the Freeze again, but he feels sorta vindicated anyway. When the Monuments win against the Thunder he also takes that as some sort of ammunition for justifying what happened. Which he doesn’t need to do, because it was the right thing, and once Ovechkin realizes that they’re gonna go back to being friends and it’ll all be good.

Alex mostly avoids him in class, but on Monday Flower apparently snaps. He drags him back over to their table, forcing him into a chair between Max and Tanger and ordering him to just “Stop being a mopey Russian bitch and hang out with us.”

It’s not like a switch is flipped or anything but he warms back up to the guys pretty quick and before long he’s joking with TK and making moon eyes at Jordy and the whole lunch table seems back to normal except for none of his jokes, smiles, or even glances are directed at Sidney at all.

Which is fine.

It’s not like Sidney really liked it back when they were. Just that such a sudden change is . . . out of the ordinary.

He starts to get a little bit better after the Monuments win, but ‘better’ pretty much translates to ‘cool with everyone except Sidney’, because apparently he’s still not down with how clearly Sidney did the right thing and everything can go back to normal.

Geno is typing furiously on his phone below the edge of the table, and after a few seconds his phone goes off, _you not jealous. Alex talk to others_.

 _I’m not jealous_. That’s so stupid, he’s not jealous, that would be so unbelievably stupid and petty and he’s not going to . . .

Alex looks right through him to Dutchy, congratulating him on a goal when Sidney had an assist on the same goal, and.

Okay. Maybe a tiny bit jealous, but not much.

“Sid?” Dutchy is all earnest eyes and curls, curious. “You okay?”

He turns to look at Alex, rolls his eyes at how obviously he’s not looking at him. “Hey. Team’s playing great, I’m playing great.” He throws it at him, watches to see what sticks. “Really, life couldn’t be better.”

||

The Invitational creeps up on them a few weeks later, and the Seabirds have been playing solidly, a little methodical but nothing creeps by them either. Good enough that Sidney’s only truly anxious about one or two of the other teams.

He spends most of his nights studying YouTube from all of the teams that he can find up there, and when he gets on the bus with his bag he’s as close to confident as he can be that they’re gonna take the round robins without a whole lot of trouble. He’s nearly Zen when they get on the bus, and he reads while Flower makes obnoxiously loud sounds trying to beat his current score on his PSP. The ride is long and loud but it’s not school and so there’s no sullen Ovechkin to stare at, wondering why he’s still being so weird about it so it’s good.

The hotel that foolishly agreed to host the Invitational teams is crowded with teams from all over, people they’ve played and people they haven’t, and Sidney lugs his bags through the lobby and tries to scope out the other guys. It’s loud and obnoxious just like anyone would expect, the desk help looks utterly frazzled as the adults try and get everything in order and the kids don’t try very hard not to break things.

He knows Alex is here, but it doesn’t matter much unless they draw each other, or meet in the finals or something. There are a lot of teams here, odds are they’re not gonna run into each other, especially not if team lines stay drawn.

Unfortunately, none of the team lines are drawn with anything more real than chalk, which kinda sucks right now.

He’s sorta unreasonably glad that Nealer is his roommate. The kid is quiet, has a good sense of humor and seems pretty much okay with leaving him alone, which is exactly what he needs.

He also lets Sidney take the bed closest to the window and then unplug and rearrange the electronics so that the alarm clock is on Sidney's side instead of his. James mostly just stands there and watches Sidney go about making the room live up to his expectations. Neal waits and then drops his bag on the free bed and stretches out, smiling to himself while Sidney busies himself with making sure the shower works and the toilet flushes and stuff like that.

Afterwards they track down the rest of the guys and end up hanging out in Flower and Max’s room until the team mixers and dinner.

Those always go on the first night, allowing the teams to scope each other out and maybe mingle a little bit, reminding hyper competitive teenage boys that these other players are also sometimes cool guys off the ice. Sidney stays close to most of the Seabirds as he tries to get over how many other guys there are in the space, tries to remember how to behave in these sorts of situations.

Max and Flower take off almost immediately when they see guys from their old school. TK takes off with Brooks, and Colby sticks with Sidney because Sidney is stuck to him like one of those plants with the grabby spines. Geno vanishes almost immediately, and Dutchy and Neal are clinging together like they’re the only freshman here, which is silly because they hold their own on the ice just fine, and also they’re not.

So pretty much like normal, him gluing himself onto Colby’s side and laughing awkwardly at jokes that aren’t directed at him, trying to pretend that he’s not too anxious to eat any of the food the hotel has provided.

At some point Colby manages to ditch him, Jordy and Marc are spending time hanging out with a kid they’ve known since Mosquitoes while trying to pretend that they aren’t spending time with each other per se because clearly that would be lame. Geno’s seriously gone as near as he can tell, and Sidney ends up sitting awkwardly on one of the hotel’s horribly upholstered couches, side eyeing the kid he thinks is the Captain of the Skyhawks and clasping his hands around the bottle of water he hasn’t even been drinking out of.

He shouldn’t be surprised when Greenie finds him, dropping himself on the arm of his chair and sighing loudly.

When Sidney doesn’t say anything he sighs again, louder. Sidney looks over sideways, at his stupid hair and his emo glasses and the way his existence parodies every Fall Out Boy song ever.

Fine. “Yes?”

“So, what exactly did you do? Geno was being really vague, but I’m not sure if that was him being _vague_ or if it was just him being, y’know. Not so good at English.”

“He’s not _bad_ at English, he just needs time sometimes,” Sidney shoots back; Geno is theirs to make fun of.

“Ovie has sorta been like death the past few weeks, is what I’m saying.” He’s staring a little bit, but it doesn’t look blatantly hostile, just curious. “I mean. He’s playing and it’s pretty awesome, but he’s playing _weird_. Like he’s got weights on his ankles or something, it’s all bottled up.”

“You do know how weird it is to be talking to someone from a different team about your lead scorer’s behavior on the ice?”

“Yeah, but. You guys are like . . . friends, right? He invited you to our team pity party that one time, and I’ve seen you at a couple others of his, so you must sorta like the guy, right?”

So much for concussions shortening his attention span. “We’re okay with each other.”

He nods slowly, looking like he’s dead serious about something. “Okay, so what’s her name?”

Sidney jerks, turns to look at him out of the corner of his eyes because he doesn’t trust his face. Stupid face. “What?”

“The girl. He said he was dumped a few weeks ago. I mean, we never knew he was seeing someone, but he stopped scoring at the parties so I guess looking back that must have been why.” He shrugs, leans back against the back of the chair, making Sidney lean forward to avoid him. “He won’t tell us, but if we know maybe we can, like, TP her house or some shit. I mean, seriously. Dumping a guy just before big games like this, it sucks. You okay?”

He is probably _not_ okay, but he’s sure as hell not gonna tell Mike Green that. “I’m fine.”

“You look pale. Er. Paler.”

He doesn’t owe him an explanation, so he doesn’t offer one. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says after a second. “He wasn’t dating a girl at our school,” he fills in because he can feel the lie sitting badly inside him, and this is a fine time for conscience to suddenly pop up.

He leaves, tracks down Geno by cornering every person he can think of who might know where he is and badgering them until they help him search for him.

They find him hanging out with Ovechkin and some of the other Monuments near the windows that lead out into the clearly useless outdoor pool. He doesn’t even try to make small talk or anything, just snags Geno by the sleeve of his hoodie and drags him away. “I have to borrow my teammate,” is thrown over his shoulder like an afterthought.

He ends up hauling Geno over to the lame corner of the gathering where he’d been hanging out previously. Geno’s clearly a little annoyed, but he’s not fighting being dragged around, which is probably Sidney’s karmic due for all the times him and Ovechkin dragged him around without much agreement on his part.

“So, you know what Green told me?” he asks as soon as they’re relatively alone. “He says Ovechkin got dumped by the girl he was dating.”

Geno blinks down at him. “You . . .” He holds his hand up, types something into his phone and after a second Sidney has a nice new message from Nikita.

 _No, Alex was not dumped by a girl. Was dumped by person he was dating._ Then, because he wants to be perfectly clear or something _That person was you._

He blinks, shakes his head. It’s too damn surreal to see the words there from Nikita, but apparently he’s Geno’s official ‘this is too important to fuck up with bad English’ translator. “You never told me Ovechkin was dating me.” He tries to keep it low so that hopefully it won’t have the effect of screaming “Gay!” in a room full of adolescent hockey players.

Geno blinks at him, mouths the words for a second and then settles on “Seem sorta obvious. He take you to movie, Sid.”

“No. I mean, yeah, but.” Thinking back.

Sorta.

Fuck.

“Plus,” Geno observes mildly, “is not job, tell who you are/are not dating.”

“I still did the right thing,” he insists, shaking his head. “I _did_. We need to focus on hockey, not on, like. Feelings. Patch would kill me if I . . .”

“No,” Geno says quietly. “No, Sid. Only you think hockey only life. Patch not expect. We not expect.”

He bites his lower lip into his mouth, blinking rapidly at the bluntness under Geno’s words. The comprehensibility. “Maybe you’re right. If I suddenly started . . . But I can’t. I’m not Ovechkin. I can’t make things casual, and anything less than casual takes me away from what I should be doing.”

“Alex not take it casual,” Geno remarks, and he sounds so completely blasé about it that Sidney gasps just a little bit, turning his head away.

“We’ll be fine,” he repeats for the millionth time, hoping against hope that that The Secret Power of Positive Thinking crap actually works, that if he just says it one million and one times maybe Ovechkin will suddenly go back to just being his rival, or his friend, or something.

“So you say.” He shrugs a little bit, then pats Sidney on the shoulder with a sad little smile, the first smile he’s seen in weeks.

He wants to go up to his room, but he needs to tell someone, probably. He ends up tracking down Dutchy. The kid is making moony eyes at the Freeze’s Captain, hanging on every “y’know” peppered phrase like he’s saying something interesting instead of something in a weirdly American accented monotone.

“I’m headed up,” he tells him, and Matt just shrugs and goes back to listening to whatever Stastny is going on about, and Sidney goes up to his room alone, curls up under the covers and turns off his phone and goes to sleep. Sleep he can deal with. Sleep never gets complicated.

||

There are a lot of Round Robins going into the finals, and they do well in them. Most of the teams he expected to get knocked out early do, there’s always a few surprises and that’s something he loves about hockey, even while he hates it a little. It would be easier if he could break it down to simple ways of understanding, but it’s always gonna be a game made partially of luck and some of the lucky ones sneak through.

They beat the Freeze and the Wolves, go down under the Skyhawks and get forced into a matchup with the Bullies for seeding.

It’s one of the matches he’s not been looking forward to for various reasons. Bad blood, conflict and personal dramas and also just the irritating inconsistency of them, the way they feast or famine their games and that makes them so unpredictable. They’re rough and unpolished and that grates on something against Sidney when he faces them, and he hates being distracted by wondering over their play.

They can never play a lazy game against them, and luckily it’s on a day where they’re not playing a double header. It’s an early game as well, which favors them slightly, but they have to step it up because the Bulldogs are absolutely brutal in the crease lately.

Seriously, their new defenseman is like, 9 feet tall and looks like he should be married with kids. Sidney disapproves of him on principle: there is no way he’s a high schooler.

They’re playing for completely different crowds, and Sidney’s a touch relieved with that. The hype is lower, the number of eyes on him is lower, and he’s grateful for the change because he’s been playing like Sidney if Sidney is afraid of breaking something, which is to say slower and with less confidence than he’s used to seeing in himself.

He hates how he can see that on the tape, when he has no idea when he’s out there, when he could be making conscious decisions to correct and change it. He hates how Ovechkin is playing strange too, like they’ve both caught the same case of mono and are trying to hide it, and he pretty much wants to hurt something when he thinks of that analogy.

So when the Bullies game comes he puts himself out there. Not just because they’re the Bullies but because he thinks — no proof, but plenty of lingering suspicion — that Alex is out there somewhere, is taking some of his free time to watch and see what Sidney is doing, and he’s sure as hell not gonna let himself play in front of Alex like he’s forgotten how to make meaningful moves with the puck. He’s not gonna give him the opportunity to even think that he might have been right.

Sidney’s never been the most aggressive guy on the ice. He’s fast and he moves smoothly and he’ll avoid before he engages, and he’s never apologized for that fact because it’s never hindered anything. He knows plenty of players with barely restrained aggression, like teenage angst has been turned into teenaged rage but that’s just not _him_. But against the Bullies, in this particular game, it is.

For all the bad blood between the teams and fans, he’s never actually had any sort of shit with any of the players off the ice. He might disapprove of their style, he might find them dirty players or too willing to eat up the blue line if they can get away with it, but he doesn’t personally have anything against them. But today he plays like he does, he shoves and pushes, he throws himself after the puck like he’s throwing himself towards immortality. It feels weird and strange under his skin and he’s entirely unsure how long he can keep it up but as long as he has it he’s gonna use it.

It doesn’t help that he scans the crowd, looking for Ovechkin because no one looks quite like him. He can’t see him but he has to be there. He has to be, because Sidney has something to prove, something about how right he was, how much better he plays when he’s not distracted by things he doesn’t know how to deal with.

At some point he should probably stop being obsessed with being right, and he will be. As soon as Geno stops looking at him, stops sic’ing Nikita after him like he’s his unusually articulate terrier. Until then he has to be right, because he has a lot riding on at least not being proven wrong about the whole thing.

Unfortunately a different style comes up and bites him when he goes down on a bad edge of his blade, skidding across the ice and then there’s a burning pain in his calf that slowly solidifies into the feeling of blood seeping into his sock. He struggles up onto his elbows, looking back and blinking at the red there, rolling his eyes up uncomprehendingly at Colby, who’s got a worried expression as Sidney pushes his glove down onto the cut on the side of his calf. It missed anything heavy, it’s just a little graze he caught from an errant skate it looks like, but he has to have help getting to his feet so he doesn’t put too much pressure on it, struggling to his feet with the help of a couple medics from the local department. Colby gets him as far as the edge of the ice before Sidney sends him off to keep playing.

He hates this. He sits on the table while he gets jabbed with a needle, the little sting barely noticeable amongst the slow burn of the cut now that adrenaline is dying down.

“Not bad,” the medic — his nametag says ‘Harris’ — tells him, examining the cut. “It missed anything big, it’s pretty much superficial but it’s gonna need stitches if you plan on trying to play the rest of the Invitational.”

He doesn’t even need asking. He’s nodding before the question’s even out, he wants this stitched up and clean so he can go back out. “Yeah, just stitch it and bandage it. Can I go back to playing after this?”

Harris smiles a little bit, completely unsurprised by the vehemence of his response. “I wouldn’t recommend it for this game, but give it a day and it’s gonna be just fine.” He gets together his number 5 kit, the needle and meters and meters of catgut that comes with it. His gloves are covered with a thin layer of Sidney’s blood, but his hands are steady as he pinches the skin together and puts it into place with a neat black line. It probably won’t even scar, or not that bad.

“I take it you know how to take care of these?” he asks, fully aware it’s rhetorical. That’s pretty much a given when Sidney’s a _hockey player_ , he’s been taking these lumps practically since he could stand. So he just gets it bandaged up, reminders not to let it get wet and a prescription for pain medication that he won’t even give to his mom to get filled before he’s sent back out there, sitting on the benches and yelling at his team from the sidelines.

“You okay?” Max asks absently, sucking on his water bottle.

“Fine.” He shrugs, rolls his shoulders and goes back to watching the game. Max doesn’t push.

It’s not as good as being out there, but it gives him time to look. He doesn’t see Alex on the side opposite the player’s benches but he’s probably behind them or something.

He’s watching intently, and he knows it’s dumb but he tries as hard as he can to use the C on his chest to will the puck into net, forcing it in with the Force or psychokinesis or something.

He can feel it almost like it’s him out there on the ice when Geno chips the puck in, when Tanger catches it with the side of his stick on an errant bounce and flips it, eyes over ass into the space over Bob’s shoulder while he’s still struggling to track the puck and figure out where the hell it _is_.

He’s on his feet and yelling, arms in the air and cheering his team. Tanger gets a firm helmet bump when he skates past the box, and Sidney shoves him along when he asks about his leg because it’s nothing. Less than nothing.

The Bullies never quite get the momentum they need, even with their Defenseman of Doom slamming Geno around like he’s determined to take their other major forward out of the game. Sidney snarls defiance at him from the bench, because unlike them their team is made up of more than just individual personalities, they could win even with only their third line able to play.

Sidney’s cautious on the ice when he skates out to the guys, arms out and hugging at them, helmet bumps and ass slaps and congratulations circling around as everyone promises Tanger his drink of choice as soon as they’re not playing. It’s their last game against the Bullies this year, and they’re all torn between relieved and realizing they might miss the little pains in the asses because, well. Rivalries are sorta fun when there’s not actual blood on the line.

When Sidney checks the boards for the next round that night, gimping a little on his leg and with Geno and Colby trailing after him like they’re gonna grab him and carry him if he so much as wobbles, he sees that the Monuments are in their block and, if they win tomorrow, they’re gonna be playing them in the semi finals.

Which is good. Get them out of the way early and then he can have a nice, Ovechkin free finals which will feel like bliss.

He gets up early the next morning, leaves Neal a note that he may or may not find explaining where he went, and he goes to watch the Monuments play.

This time around not even Geno is with him, everyone’s asleep and he’s sorta absurdly grateful for routine as he slips into the stands, gets himself settled in a good spot to watch everything. He’s pretty high up, easily concealed, and he reminds himself that he’s doing this because he wants to keep an eye on how they’re playing, not for any lame reason like wanting to see Alex or anything.

Since it’s so early it’s not all that full, but he picked a good section to disappear into as people settle around him and pretty soon he’s wriggling so he can see over the head of the guy in front of him, watching the teams warm up. Alex is skating the boards, slow and methodical like he needs to remind himself how exactly his legs are supposed to move. It looks strange, but he’s fine. He’s gotta be fine. He’s Alex. He’ll always be fine.

Sidney’s sorta absurdly happy to be watching the game; it’s a really good one, every meter of ice is fought over and contested, the biscuit is flying around like a tiny missile and Alex is playing . . .

Weird. Not himself, overly cautious and a little slow on the recovery, enough that someone who’s seen his plays can tell that he’s just slightly distracted, or sick, or maybe favoring his right side.

The game has Sidney biting at his cuticles, gnawing at the dead skin there and just watching as the Monuments come together as a cohesive team in a way that he finds himself really admiring, really watching and being impressed with. Even with Ovechkin off they’re rallying and fighting tooth and nail to keep the puck out of their ice. But it’s a dynamic he can’t help but feel smug about. The Seabirds have had it for the whole season, they’d die out there for each other.

He’s playing _weird_. Sidney has tried his hardest to not devote his life to studying Alex or anything, beyond what he needs to know how to beat him, but this? Alex is playing like he’s drowning. Like his ankles have lead strapped to them, like he has lead in his chest and back and shoulders and it’s all he can do to just stay on his feet and keep skating. He’s overcautious like fear, and it looks so foreign on him that Sidney can barely register it. He’s not playing badly, just. He’s not Ovechkin.

The Monuments score a goal on a power play in the second, and they hold it there until the third, when they’re called for an extra man. They shut down the PP, but their goalie misses a block maybe a minute after they return to full strength to tie it up, and it stays that way into the shoot off.

Sidney’s never been present at one of their games when there’s a shoot off and he’s right there, watching with slightly slitted eyes as they trade shots, fingernails digging into his palms as though he actually has something riding on this. In a way he does, in that whoever wins he may have to face later on, but that’s a piss poor reason to be here since technically he _could_ be facing any of these teams at any point in the playoff process.

When Backstrom tucks the puck neatly into the net, a quick shot that looks almost effortless coming off his stick, Sidney should be no more excited than he would be if the other team had won, should if anything be less than invested because now the winner has officially become the future enemy, the team he’s gonna have to skate across to get to where he has to be.

Sidney is on his feet, cheering like he can’t believe it, like this was something he was wanting to see. He straightens his shirt when he realizes that, smoothes the front and tries to look rational, like he doesn’t have anything riding on the game, which of course he doesn’t. Or something.

It feels good to watch Ovechkin win, though. Even when he has something riding on the game, even when they gotta face each other the next round. He’s just sorta glad. It was a good game, and maybe it’ll help to prove him right, give Ovechkin the confidence he’s lacking, so he’s worth playing when that time comes.

He’s filing out when he feels Geno’s arm sling around his shoulders, squeezing gently in a way that almost feels like forgiveness. “Is good. Time for breakfast, yeah?”

His voice is softer than usual and Sidney glances up suspiciously, but Geno’s looking straight ahead and not giving anything away.

“Yeah,” he decides after a few seconds. “Breakfast is good.”

||

Next round’s set so that they take on the Cubs, and it’s their turn to take on an absolutely brutal game; it’s fought like a war on the ice with everyone pulling as hard as they physically can to get through. The Cubs’ defense is brutal and honed, it takes everything in Sidney’s repertoire to push them along, leading and dragging the team by turns, fighting for the advance.

It’s so close. Sidney loves those games, where he fights for every point, each fraction of ice and every shot contested. Even with his leg stitched up he loves it, the way everything narrows down to the field of ice, vision and periphery and racing for the goal. The whole world stops being important except for the puck and the ice.

It’s hard to be frustrated when there’s a bitter, tooth-clenching glee in playing that sort of hockey, an adrenaline rush that’s so much better than an easy game even though he’s happy to take a win no matter what. They pull out a win on a neat little goal from Geno in the first, then a repeat in the third giving them a comfortable 2-0. The handshake line is quick and cordial, they get changed into their normal clothes and all crash in Flower and Max’s room in a repeat of opening night, sprawled over every available surface and celebrating with the bottles they managed to sneak in with their luggage.

Sidney should probably be gone for the plausible deniability of it, but they’re not gonna get caught because Patch and Dan both went conveniently missing after the game. So he stays and watches the fifths get demolished and laughs as the replays of the goals get more and more incoherent until Max and Flower fall over on top of each other trying to replay TK’s crash of the net and don’t even try to get up afterwards.

Neal ends up needing to be half carried to their room afterwards, and Sidney lets the younger boy lean on him as he gets the door open, fumbling his key out of his pocket.

“Drink water,” Sidney orders, shoving the glass in his face after tossing him somewhat unceremoniously on the bed.

James makes a face, less approving and more just vaguely disgusted with the idea, but he drinks the glass down and then Sidney gets him another one. They both fall asleep in silence, and when Sidney wakes up he’s the only one not hung-over so he goes for his morning jog by himself.


	11. Chapter 11

They don’t face the Monuments in the second round either, but the Monuments win going into the semifinals and so they draw them in the third.

Which pretty much figures, with their luck. They couldn’t get them at an earlier round, when the stupid, obsessive need of every person even marginally connected to hockey to make a big deal about this would maybe have been a little _less_.

So going into the semi finals Sidney knows for certain that he’s gonna be facing Alex on the ice, and they’re probably going to be having issues at each other and stuff, so it’s a really, really good thing that he stopped . . . whatever they were doing, because if he looked over and Alex like, winked or flirted or something, he’d probably cross check him to the face before he even knew what was happening.

He doesn’t exactly get weirder than usual going into it, but he’s always taken his routine seriously so he’s not gonna risk deviating even a tiny bit before the game. They’ve been playing well since Geno decided he didn’t want to shank him for whatever he did to Alex, and he’s not gonna let that go to waste by not getting ready properly.

So he gets ready, does everything he has to do to make sure his game face is on and his game mind is set up and all of those things, and the team mostly don’t give him shit because they also like winning. It’s sorta a thing.

They get to the ice early, and Sidney’s sorta relieved for once in his life that he is still a kid, that he can go out there and play and not need to answer a ton of stupid questions before he’s allowed to. In a few years, God willing, he’s gonna have all the questions in the world to answer before, after, and sometimes during a game. Right now, though, he can just be a kid and go out and play some really good hockey and let that speak for itself.

There’s not a whole lot of anticipation this time, because they’ve faced these guys before. The big, fabled first matchup happened, they won, it’s all sorta easier in a way because there’s nothing special about it.

Well, they’re playing for advancement, so that’s special. But it’s not out of the ordinary or anything.

Sidney’s not sure if he’s ever gonna stop being sick to his stomach with nerves before a game. He sorta doubts it, because he’s heard from everyone everywhere that it never gets better, but maybe he can learn to deal with it in a way that doesn’t involve shaking a little bit and fidgeting all over the place as he waits to head out for warm-ups. That would be awesome, but he also knows that he’s _Sidney_ , so probably nothing will ever change.

He’s been wearing the same jock practically since he started playing hockey, because he can’t let routines change.

So he’s bouncing from foot to foot, testing the stitches in his calf and just waiting, while everyone else does their thing which ranges from arguing to also bouncing around to being completely, utterly still. He’s pretty sure guys besides Flower and Max are doing things, too.

When they finally hit ice to warm up they stay to their own side and don’t bother anyone and just work things out. Colby’s sticking a little closer than usual, and Patch has him on the same line for some reason. It’s not weird enough to have him worried, but it’s not something he’s used to so he makes Colby practice a few things with him just so he can feel sure that they’re in the right place with this.

Colby just rolls his eyes and lets Sidney coax him through a few drills like he’s secretly their coach, and Sidney doesn’t even look up when the Monuments hit the ice because he has better things to be doing than looking up to see what Alex is doing.

“Oh, maaaaan,” Staal mumbles as he skates leisurely past Sidney, pausing to look down at his feet like he suddenly doesn’t remember why they’re there. “Ovie looks like a bull who saw a red flag.”

“We’re wearing white.” Sidney looks up just a little, then. “They’re wearing red.”

“No, I mean.” He blinks a few times, like he’s trying to decide if Sidney’s really oblivious or being deliberately obtuse. “He looks mad,” he finally decides.

“Let him. We won last time, we will again.” Sidney says it like there’s no question there, and then he skates off a little bit.

Colby follows him. That’s weird.

It becomes a little more obvious when the biscuit drops and Ovechkin makes a run at him without even any sort of _pretext_ behind it. He just comes straight at him, and luckily Colby is there in the way and stops him before he can do much more than glare death at some place just over Sidney’s left shoulder.

Sidney’s not really into Alex’s vendetta, though. He’s into winning this game, so he puts him entirely out of his head, and it helps that they’re not line matched much through the first.

Into the second they end up together more, and Sidney’s trying really hard to concentrate on the face off and not totally screwing it up, but he sorta can’t stop looking over at Alex, and how he’s got a look on his face like he’s wondering if Sidney would cry if he got a puck to the jaw. And each time he looks over he starts _thinking_ , which is a horrible plan because then he screws up sometimes.

Well, once.

But once is more than Sidney likes to screw up, especially when it takes a miracle save from Flower to keep it scoreless.

And especially when the very next breakaway has the Monuments scoring.

He tries to buckle down after that, and it’s not like he doesn’t have experience playing against people who hate his guts. He’s just never played someone who hates his guts so personally, because of something they think he did, instead of just because he’s Sidney Crosby or something.

It’s not like he did anything wrong. People break up when things aren’t working all the time. That’s the whole reason to break up, basically. So he doesn’t feel bad at all that that’s what happened.

“Jesus, Ovie wants your head,” Max remarks casually as they watch Geno and his line fighting to hold the Monuments off when clearly all they want to do is just plow them over and like, light their net on fire and then shoot pucks through the ashes.

“Or something,” Sidney mumbles, watching the way Geno takes a check really hard, but he manages to hang on to the puck.

Next time he’s out Ovechkin is after him again. He doesn’t even have the puck half the time when Alex darts by, hisses at him and makes him stumble a little at the sheer emotion in it.

When Sidney does get the puck, it’s even worse. Alex's whole goal in life is taking Sidney down so he can have that puck back or something, and he’s not gonna back down from it.

So Sidney almost spends more time trying to get away than he does making actual use of the puck, and it doesn’t help that Gainan keeps matching Patchett’s lines so Sidney can’t even get away from him.

Ovechkin barrels into him like a _tank_ when he finally manages to hang onto the puck for more than a second or two. And then he doesn’t even try and pretend that it’s about the game when Sidney passes smoothly to Colby and Alex is _still_ all in his face, rasping at him like he wants him dead. It’s a weird mixture of English and Russian, a slip Sidney’s never heard from Ovechkin before, but he doesn’t need to speak the language to know he’s furious.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Sidney manages, skating away just a little bit so he can put space between them, so they’re not face to face out there, but Ovechkin seems determined to be in his face, picking a fight.

“Problem?” he demands, voice sounding pretty much broken. “You problem, you dump me and not for good reason! We happy, Sidney! Both us happy, why you asshole about everything?”

Sidney backs away, Alex pursues. He can tell play has stopped. He sees Colby coming after them. He just has to hang on until Colby is here. “We weren’t . . . Happy isn’t enough, happy is personal, but on the ice . . .”

“You lose a few game, is not bad, is just hockey! You not have right, decide for us what make us play good, you not only person . . .”

Colby is almost there, but then Ovechkin throws a punch right at his face. No preamble, no feigning or bluffing, just a right cross hitting him in the face with all the force of 200 lbs of muscle and Russian and _pain_ slamming into his jaw.

“You not only person in this!” Alex snarls before he moves to throw another, and Sidney doesn’t exactly have any options aside from hitting back, trying to block him but mostly just flailing at him while Alex hauls off and decks him again.

He somehow gets his gloves off, but at that point Alex has already knocked his helmet off and he’s hitting for real, like he might actually want to cause Sidney some sort of damage, and for some weird reason the thought that goes through his head right before he manages to land a decent one on Ovechkin’s cheek is that this time when he loses the fight Alex isn’t gonna be around to give him advice and then let him blow him.

Which, since Alex is the one winning the fight, and the blowjobs are sorta what got them into this mess in the first place . . .

It’s a really stupid thought to have.

He hopes he doesn’t have a concussion or something, the thought is so stupid. But probably Ovechkin doesn’t punch that hard.

“Fuck,” he manages to hiss out, holding his arms up and sorta trying and failing to land a punch. “Ovechkin, fuck, stop, we . . .”

He has no idea what he’s gonna say, aside from ‘please stop punching me in the face’, and maybe 'fuck, why is your face so hard', but then Colby is there, and Brooks, and they’re pulling the two of them apart and Sidney tastes blood when he prods the sore part of his lip.

“You’re crazy,” he manages as Colby passes him off to the ref like a bad call.

“I not one who ruin things for stupid reason,” Ovechkin snarls back, and then he’s stuck in the penalty box for a while and Sidney gets to just watch as Mike Green gets a goal.

The only consolation, as he plants his face in his glove, is that Alex had nothing to do with that goal.

Third period is like hell, Alex is still out to get him like he learned absolutely nothing from the penalty, and Colby is busy trying to keep Sidney from getting murdered.

“Shouldn’t you be playing?” he hisses to Alex, who snarls at him.

“We already up two points,” he shoots back. “See all the good break up did for you?”

He is not dignifying that with an answer.

He thinks the goal he gets in on a gorgeous pass from Neal does all the answering he needs it to. And then he starts refusing to rise to Alex’s bait, because he’s got better things to do, like play the game.

Which doesn’t do a whole lot when Neuvy transforms from a person into a concrete wall, but he gets in some really good shots, and when the buzzer ending play sounds he doesn’t break his stick over his thigh, which is probably a good thing both for his stick and his thigh.

Not that he’s gonna be doing much with either one after this.

The handshake line is really, really hard, and he’s not exactly sure how he’s supposed to react to the whole thing. It’s sorta dumb, he’s normally a good loser, gracious if pissed off, but the closer Alex gets to him the more he wants to become a really, really bad loser and, like. Sucker punch him, or something.

He’s ready for Ovechkin to pull something, kissing him again, or gloating, or even just looking smug, but instead he just glides over him like he’s the Dalai Lama, giving Sidney the most distasteful handshake ever, as though he doesn’t want to be touching him.

It makes Sidney grit his teeth, especially since Alex _won_.

“Good game,” he grits out, and Alex actually smiles at that.

“Yes,” he agrees. “Maybe you right after all.”

Sidney wants everything in the universe to die in a fiery explosion.

“I’m always right,” is what he says instead, just so he can watch Alex make a face like he just pissed in his shoe. “And you have a _stupid_ smile.”

He doesn’t want to stick around after they lose. He would love to pack up and go home and maybe have mopey feelings on the sofa for five or six minutes, until Taylor gets annoying and he gets antsy and goes for a run. But that's not an option open to hi right now, and it sucks.

This isn’t the first time he’s lost, he knows how it works. He’ll mope and then he’ll work out and then it’ll all be back to normal. But instead they end up staying, end up being delayed in returning and so they get to be there when Alex and the Monuments end up facing the Rushers, which is what Sidney should be doing except for how they lost.

He doesn’t want to go there, he doesn’t want to have to watch them play another game when he really still thinks that it blows that it’s not him and the Seabirds out there. But Geno is kinda persistent in that way where he pretends to not know enough English to understand Sidney’s protests, and he drags him along.

Some of the other guys go, so it’s not like it’s not something they can do, but it’s a little sketchy as to whether they _should_ be doing it.

He doesn’t calm down when TK points Dan out in the crowd, even though he probably should because he can’t get in trouble for being here when their Assistant Coach is here.

And when they end up sitting with him, apparently. Sidney gets crammed between Geno and Tanger, and they’re not gonna let him get out of watching the game.

He’s not even sure why he’s here. Ovechkin is the team's favorite Russian who doesn't belong to them, but otherwise this is the team that beat them. He slouches down and resolves not to care about the outcome of the game, but his funk gets ruined about five minutes into the first on a completely gorgeous break away and then he’s sorta invested because this may be the Monuments, but it’s also _good hockey_.

And now that they’re out he guesses he can sorta admit that he still thinks Alex looks amazing on the ice, especially now that he’s skating closer to how Sidney remembers him moving, still cautious but also better than he's seen in a long time.

“So.” Flower bends halfway into Max’s lap in order to look over Tanger at Sidney, but he seems pretty invested in catching his attention. “Care to explain what you did to Alex to make him decide that killing you was almost more important than the game?”

He considers ignoring him, but Flower is a goalie and therefore very bendy. He can hold that pose indefinitely. “No.”

“No, I have no clue, or no I don’t want to explain?”

“No, it doesn’t really matter, we lost anyway so please drop it.”

“Aren’t you the one who always makes us relive every mistake we ever made in order to improve or some shit?” Max asks, all innocent except for how Sidney _knows_ him. “Shouldn’t we be, like. Examining why exactly you let Ovie drag you into a fight when you’re not even good at those?”

Luckily Tanger gets annoyed at being yelled over and makes them shut up for a few minutes.

Unluckily, they’re persistent as fuck.

“No, really. Like, you guys were cool, and now you’re not. That’s weird. We need to know what happened so we can fix it. Or kick his ass, one of the two.”

“It wasn’t his fault.” Sidney’s voice is quiet and reluctant, but if he wants to stop being stupid about this he should probably stop lying about it. “Mostly. Mostly not his fault.”

“Right. Which makes so much —”

Matt suddenly elbows Flower, at the same time that the goal horn sounds and first up on the board goes to the Monuments.

They all cheer and clap a little; if they’re gonna be knocked out it’s better that it be by the winners.

“It’s too early to call that,” Sidney points out, but it hardly matters. Everyone’s cheering anyway.

“Alex punching you not make it better,” Geno points out, during intermission.

“I know,” he admits. And then, because it’s Geno and Geno deserves to hear it, “I might have fucked that up a little bit.”

“A _little_?”

He pulls a face, slouching down a bit. “A lot, fine.”

“Yes,” Geno agrees.

“Shit, Ovie is still playing weird, though,” Matt starts at roughly the same time they all wince and the goal horn goes off for the Rushers. “Like that, for instance.”

There’s no point in denying it, especially when Sidney can’t deny that he’s seen it, is still seeing it out there on the ice. Someday he’s going to remember that not everyone is him, which should probably be obvious but apparently isn’t. And that blows. Or doesn’t.

He needs to stop thinking.

“So, what. Are you not friends or something? I mean, I know he’s been ignoring you but. You’re Sidney. You’re kinda.” Flower gestures in a big, vague way.

“Inoffensive,” Max finishes for him, and Geno starts laughing on Sidney’s other side until Bylsma turns around and shushes all of them like they’re secretly six and need to be shushed. Though Sid’s still not sure about Dutchy sometimes, that kid really might secretly be six.

They go back to actually watching the game, because it’s a good game and they all love hockey, so they should really be into it. And they are, except for how they also seem to like ribbing him every chance they have. So he’s not looking forward to intermission, when the probing redoubles until he’s ready to curl up on himself and maybe beg for alien abduction, because it would probably be less intrusive.

“No, really. Like, he’s been playing weird ever since you two fought, or whatever. And it’d be cool to know why exactly that is, because they beat us yesterday and now they’re acting like they can’t decide if chasing the puck is part of their duty and stuff.”

Sidney buries his face into his hands, shaking his head. “Shut up. We had a disagreement. Everyone involved was an idiot —”

Geno grunts.

“— Mostly I was an idiot and oh look, the game is starting.”

Luckily for him it is, and once it starts they stop paying attention to him again. It’s a tight game, one that’s gorgeous to watch because everything goes back and forth with lightning speed, and the mistakes are negligible and everything’s matched up so evenly. The more they play the more Alex starts to open up, play like he means it and not like he’s scared to death or just too bored to move the puck in a meaningful way. It’s not like he didn’t probably realize that the game is on the line, but now he’s actually playing like he realizes it.

Sidney will never like losing. Never. But, when Alex is playing really well . . . he’s sorta okay with maybe, if he has to, losing to him. Not really, but close enough.

“No, seriously.” No goals in the second, and Flower is right back at it, only apparently he’s finally roped Max into being in on it, too.

“You should tell us, because we are a team. And we deserve to know things like why Ovie’s mad at you and playing bad.”

“You should not pick it up, is not business of anyone but Sid and Ovie.” Geno prods at Flower, poking until he turns back to the game.

They’re still tied in the third when Alex gets a pass, is shouldered off it and then goes berserk. There was probably time for something to be muttered in the process, which is the only reason for Alex doing what he does, getting the puck back and then promptly dropping it in favor of one of the dirtier hits Sidney’s ever had the pleasure of not having directed at him.

The smaller guy goes down, curling up like he wants to protect himself from any more Ovechkin related rage, and Alex is still screaming at him when they steer him away from the ice and into the penalty box, letting the Rusher slowly shake his head out and try to get his feet under him with the help of his teammates.

It’s a stupid move, one of those that’s spurred by something besides just whatever was said or done out there, and Sidney winces the next time the goal horn plays for the Rushers, Alex still stewing in his own private hell. And then Sidney winces again. And then stops wincing. The Monuments are trying, but. It’s hard to be better when one of their leaders . . . isn’t.

Sidney doesn’t even want to watch as the Rushers win it, the trophy and the whole thing while Alex is on the sidelines, hands between his knees and agony written all over his face. Sidney can feel his chest tightening in sympathy, this is their loss only different, easier because it’s not him needing to put on a brave face, but worse because it’s for stakes that were one round higher, spitting distance of winning and _not good enough_.

When the Monuments file off the ice Alex is allowed with them, and he keeps his head mostly down like he finally realizes how badly he’s fucked up. But then he looks up, right before he hits the tunnel. Right up, into the stands and there’s no messing around with scanning the crowd or seeking out the Seabirds or anything. His gaze just falls directly on Sidney, a hundred yard stare at a hundred paces, and there’s something in his face that has Sidney’s belly knotting, cramping up as though he’s got exactly the same bug inside his gut that Alex has. Alex is looking right at him, and it’s defiance and anger, and then there’s something under there that looks a lot like loneliness.

He doesn’t get to watch the awards ceremony, and it’s not even for a good reason like he walked out in support of the Monuments. He misses it because he’s in the bathroom coughing up the tea and toast he’d choked down for breakfast and shaking so hard he can barely catch his breath in time to puke all over again.

It’s really gross and horrible, he thinks as he rests his head against the bowl and tries to make his eyes stop watering so he can stop seeing Alex’s face inside his eyelids.

He owes Alex so many apologies, he just has no idea how in the world to go about forming _any_ of them.

||

The bus ride back to town is one of the more somber he’s been on. Not because the team is particularly quiet or out of it or anything, but at least a little bit because Sidney is curled up in his seat and trying to pretend that he doesn’t exist, and that he doesn’t really care if he exists or not, because existing is hard and stupid and pointless. Flower mostly leaves him alone, too, which is sorta a novel experience and allows Sidney to sulk in peace.

He needs to get ahold of Alex, apologize to him at the very least, because he has almost no faith whatsoever that they can actually patch this thing up. Because it’s been going on too long and Alex has been so mad for so much of it. There’s just not a lot of hope he’s willing to put things aside and forgive Sidney for being, he realizes now, an idiot.

Not everyone works like him and he should probably learn to adapt to the world instead of trying to make it work better for him, and one of these days he’s totally gonna get on that.

When school finally lets out it’s such a relief, he doesn’t see Alex every day and he’s not getting judged by Geno, and it sorta sucks too because he never got up the courage to talk to him, but he has time. The summer’s just starting and he has time to apologize once he’s had some time to figure out what he needs to say. He’s not gonna go into this cold, because. Well, he knows what happens when he goes in cold, and past experience says it’s pretty horrible.

It doesn’t help that he’s still getting texts from Nikita, sometimes as many as four or five a day, doing everything from suggesting he call Alex to asking him to call Alex to threatening to yell at him if he doesn’t call Alex. The long distance overinvestment in his nonexistent romance is getting kinda scary intense. He asks Geno to ask Nikita to calm down, and the only thing he notices is the texts get less frequent, but just as intense.

So he spends the next few days at home sulking, or probably brooding, since that sounds more grown up and less like the pathetic teenager that he’s totally being. So he spends his time home brooding, holed up in his room watching games on the computer when he’s kicked off the TV so that people who aren’t him can use it. It’s worse now that school’s out and he’s there all the time. Or, whenever he’s not at the rink. He’s still home more than during school, though. It gets to where even his mom is flustered, annoyed and ready for him to just either tell her what’s wrong or stop being a crazy person.

He can’t tell her exactly. He’s not ready to tell her about his thing with Ovechkin that wasn’t a thing because there were no real words for it, so all he can tell her is “Alex and I had a fight, and he’s mad and we’re not talking now. I guess.”

He must look more pathetic than he realizes, because instead of offering advice or anything she just pats him on the head with the hand not currently covered in soap suds and hands him another plate. “It’s okay, Sidney. He’s your friend, I’m sure if you just try and talk to him he’ll understand and forgive.” It’s sorta tragic when she says “That’s what friends do,” all serious like she honestly isn’t sure if he understands that or not.

He sighs and goes back to drying. “If he’ll even take a call.”

She turns and looks at him, face concerned. “You don’t know if you don’t try.”

That’s almost exactly what he remembers her telling him about skating the first time, even though he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t remember that because most two year olds don’t have great memories and all that. “I’ll try.”

“And call Geno and Colby, Taylor’s about ready to climb a wall with how you never leave the house or have friends anymore.”

“I leave!” he insists for all of ten or twelve seconds before he sighs, goes back to drying his plates. “Sometimes. Fine,” he gives in finally, and finishes the dishes.

He should call Alex. He knows that’s the grown up and adult thing that he should be doing. Instead he calls Geno, and ends up inviting him over to play video games so his parents will stop treating him like he’s some sort of sad wreck who has no friends.

“So, um.” He shifts a little, because this isn’t why he called Geno, but he realizes how much he also wants to know. “Is Alex still mad at me?”

Geno makes a grumbling sound and puts his controller aside, then begins to stare at Sidney like he’s lost his mind.

“I not know,” he says, finally. “I not his keeper, Sidney.”

“I know, but you’re.” He ducks his head, shoots more of the little pixilated people before trying again. “You’re his friend.”

There’s another long pause before Geno finally turns and sorta looks at him without looking away from the TV, because he doesn’t want to look away in case Sidney starts winning or at least not sucking or something. “Yes.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

“And I guess. I want to talk to him. I said we should be friends, after, and . . .” He sighs.

“You say friends, not mean it real. Sanja not agree with you, so it not count for friends.”

He has to mouth through that a few times before he gets it. “We are friends. I. I wanted us to be friends, because we were friends before . . .”

There’s another pause while they both shoot the crap out of the bad guys on the screen so Sidney can focus on doing things like not having feelings in front of his friend. Because that would suck.

“We’re not friends, are we?”

“You need ask Alex that, but.” Geno fiddles with his controller, then sets it aside for just a moment, looking at Sidney seriously. “Alex cares, Sidney. Lots more than you can think. See, you hurt two times. One, you say was not serious for you, and for Alex it was. And also, make it seem like Alex not take it serious, and he very serious. He like you.”

Sidney is not going to cry over feelings or anything dumb like that, but apparently he’s not above getting sick to his stomach again, curling over his controller and just focusing on getting himself to breathe.

“I really screwed up, didn’t I?”

That doesn’t even get a response. So he goes back to shooting things, passive aggressively working out his feelings with the controller until his mom makes Geno stay for dinner, and of course his dad asks about Alex because his parents are possibly fonder of Alex than they are of their own children.

“Alex is good,” Geno says finally, as noncommittal as he can.

“God, stop _talking_ about him,” Taylor whines, poking her dinner with a sigh. “You’re as bad as Sidney.”

“Hey!”

“Seriously, all day it’s like he’s moping around and being a pain, seriously Geno. Can’t you make them be friends again so he’ll stop?”

Geno blinks at her a lot, which is sorta the default response of a lot of people when faced with Taylor on a mission, but which is also really funny in a ‘glad it’s not me’ sorta way. “I.”

“Taylor, please,” his mother scolds mildly, but she’s grinning like Sidney’s discomfort is the best thing because his parents are horrible.

She goes silent, but after Geno leaves Sidney goes to his room, staring at his phone on the bedside, and.

Well.

What does he have to lose, really? They all have points, and some of them are even valid, and. And he misses Alex. It’s real, he’s actually missing the guy, and he doesn’t have a whole lot to lose in just trying. He’s never scared of trying.

The phone rings twice before Alex answers, and everything knots up inside his chest when he stops to think about all of the things he would like to say and so all he manages is a really lame “Hey. Um. It’s Sid. Sidney.”

“I know that, you in my contacts,” Alex observes, and yeah. He definitely sounds hostile.

“Listen, I. I wanted us to be friends, I said. And. Um. We’re not doing too good with that, and I wanted to —”

“You not play better without me. I think you would suddenly become like Great One or something, is disappointing to not see that.”

Sidney bites his lip, he wants to say so much and none of it is appropriate. “You played off.”

“Yes, I get dumped. Is what happens when you get dumped.”

It’s different coming from his mouth, it has different texture. Geno could never make it sound so layered, so utterly pissed off and —

And betrayed.

“I did the right thing,” he repeats, like he has every day since he did it.

Alex makes a dismissive sound, and that’s different from what he expected, and it sorta burns. “What? Sorry, going through tunnel in house, losing you.”

He sorta hates how cell phones don’t even have the decency to have a disconnect sound. They just go dead in his ear, like his is right now.

 _Alex still hates me_ he texts to Geno, and a few seconds later he gets _What u xpect?_ , so he turns his phone off and plays solitaire on his computer until bed.

||

Two weeks pass really slowly when he’s bored. Especially when he doesn’t try to talk to Alex because Alex apparently won’t talk to him, and also because he’s just too busy doing important things to worry about it.

Whatever, playing Halo and running and practicing in his basement is totally important, especially with his senior year and the big number 18 flashing like a beacon at the end of the summer.

After the third week of the moping and the running and the practicing his mom gets annoyed and ships him and Taylor off to their grandmother’s for their usual summer visit.

“It’s like, a month early!” Sidney protests as he’s shoved unceremoniously towards the plane, bag clutched against his chest as his parents look supportive and loving and ready to just get rid of him for awhile.

“Shut up. Thanks to you, Mopey McMoperson, we’re both going early.” Sidney never goes without Taylor, not to see their grandparents, because there are big and important things for her to learn out in the middle nowhere, like how bad Sidney is at relaxing even for the amount of time it takes to go fishing, and what a pain wood burning _anythings_ are.

“Hey!” he snaps, even as he takes her bag and shoves it into the overhead compartment because she can’t reach yet.

“Seriously, Sidney. You’ve been a moping mess for over a month, and we’re all sick of it. I’m, like, so jealous of Mom and Dad, because they get to stay here, and I have to go with you to Grandma’s where you’re probably just gonna mope more, just in a different setting.”

“I’m not moping,” he says, slouching into his seat, but Taylor just kicks him and flips her pigtails a little.

“You are. Is it all about Alex? I mean, I knew you guys sorta hung out, because he was pretty much the only thing that made you cool, so I noticed that.”

He looks sideways at her, then up at the ceiling and tries to imagine three hours of this, Taylor pestering and pestering until he spills. Probably better to just get it out of the way, because he fears his little sister more than is healthy. Or reasonable.

“We had a fight,” he admitted. “Because I was stupid.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

The attendant comes by to check on them, and Sidney is silent until he’s gone, then he kicks his sister in the shin hard enough that she jumps and punches him in the shoulder. “Jerk,” she hisses. “God, it’s not my fault you’ve made your life into some kind of TV melodrama, I’m just saying.”

“What, you want me to spill?”

She makes a face at him. “No, not really. I’m your sister, keep your angsty insanity to yourself. It kinda sucks, though. Alex was like, the coolest friend you had when he came over. He even taught me a few words in Russian.”

Sidney’s aware how pale his face must go, and it’s not just because he hates takeoff, hates the lack of control and the weird way his stomach goes upside down before settling. Taylor doesn’t push him while he waits it out, but once they’re airborne she looks at him.

“Don’t pee your shorts, I checked with Geno and they really were just normal words, nothing dirty or anything. Stuff like how to ask directions. Hey.” She perks up, looking sideways at him with a little smile. “Does this mean I know more Russian than you? Because you’ve got like, two Russian friends and I don’t have any, and . . .”

She trails off after a second, looking at Sidney with huge, apologetic eyes. “I’m sorry, Sid. But. I mean, I’m sure Alex is still your friend, right? I mean. I haven’t, but I know girls at school, they get in a fight every hour it seems like, but they’re always back to being friends at lunch.”

“This is . . . It’s harder than that,” he admits, looking out the window. “It’s not like I forgot to wear twinsies shirts with him.”

“Fuck you, that’s not why girls fight. Not the only reason.”

“Language,” he says absently.

Taylor sighs, pulling out the DS and turning it on. “I’m just saying, the reason you’re fighting probably sounds as stupid to other people. You should call him and like, talk it out or. Whatever it is guys do. Fist bump, or whatever. Hey, I bet I can beat your high score.”

There is nothing worse than talking about feelings with his baby sister. Nothing. “I bet you can’t.”

“Bring it.”

She spends the rest of the flight trying desperately to set a new high score, and Sidney spends most of it staring out the window, or flicking her ear if it looks like she’s getting close. It’s pretty uneventful for the most part, and when they touch down their grandparents are waiting for them like always, smelling like work and a little rough, exactly like Sidney remembers and loves.

“Let’s get your bags, and then we can head to the house. You got any friends to call, do it now, your phones don’t get good reception ever since that tower went down.”

Taylor starts texting frantically. “They haven’t fixed it?”

Their grandfather starts to laugh at her, easy and affectionate. “Heavens no, not out in nowhere where it’s hardly worth it.”

Sidney turns on his phone while they wait for the carousel, stares at the screen for a little bit and then sends a perfunctory text to Geno and Colby, letting them know he’s not gonna have good service so he’ll see them in a month. In a way he’s glad for the change in schedule; if they’d gone in July like usual he would have missed Geno’s birthday, and also saying goodbye to him before he has to go back home. And, well. This gives him time to clear his head and maybe try again with Alex. Try. Something, anyway. Apologize again, or for real actually, since he never actually got around to saying sorry the last time they spoke.

“Are you alright, Sidney?”

His grandmother is the only person he knows who can make it sound like she’s using his full name every time she uses that tone of voice.

“Fine,” he promises, and hauls Taylor’s bag off before snatching for his hockey bag.  



	12. Chapter 12

His grandparents weren’t lying when they said that service cut off two kilometers from their house. Sidney’s phone loses bars and then never gets them back again, right in the middle of explaining to Max that no, he does not require any sort of rescue mission and that being out of range at his grandparent’s house does not equal any sort of abuse or endangerment that he can think of.

Sometimes Max’s priorities weird him out, but then again if he were Max and had to lose contact with Flower that long maybe it’d be an issue.

He powers his phone off for the rest of the way, and then he has to help haul everything in because Taylor is busy hiding somewhere, dropping them off in the rooms they stay in when they visit. His grandma vanishes into the kitchen to finish the roast she was making so Sidney plays with the DS until he’s sure his score is safe from Taylor for the remainder of the trip, and then goes down for dinner when he’s called.

Dinner conversations are always nice with them, even though they make him talk about things besides hockey sometimes. Taylor tells them all about how she did in school, and even shows them her transcripts which were something Sidney didn’t think to bring along and which earns her treasured child status for the rest of the night.

It’s weird how often he has to stop himself from talking about Ovechkin, but the boy sorta infiltrated his school and hockey worlds pretty effectively. He’d never really thought about it until he slips and calls him ‘Alex’ instead of ‘Ovechkin’, and even though no one bats an eye at the casual familiarity he still feels strange, because even after they’d . . . he still called Alex by his last name to his family.

It’s probably weird that this thing is infiltrating his life even more after it ended than it had when it was going on.

“So this Alex, he’s the one in those articles your parents sent? The exchange boy in your league?”

“Yeah,” he answers reluctantly, it feels like school all over again where he doesn’t really want to be talking to anyone about him. “He’s a really great player, and we kinda got to be friends. We had the same English class, and we played each other sometimes, so.” He shrugs.

“They’re not friends anymore, and you should ask him why because he won’t tell us,” Taylor chimes in, and Sidney throws his roll at her.

“Sidney!”

Whatever, it’s carbs. He shouldn’t be having those. “Sorry,” he says after a moment, then goes back to eating in spare, economical movements perfectly timed to prevent conversation by ensuring his mouth always has something in it.

“That’s too bad,” his grandmother says finally, after a long pause. “Taylor, help me with the dishes.”

Sidney grins, because ‘help me with the dishes’ has always been family talk for ‘we need to have a discussion away from everyone’, and it’s about time Taylor get grilled about something. Her life is probably way more interesting than his is. Hopefully she’ll be reminded about boundaries or something, that’d be awesome.

He turns his phone on before he goes to bed, and he still has no bars so he throws it on his nightstand and doesn’t bother to mute it before he falls asleep.

||

The thing is, he really likes time with his grandparents. They’re pretty cool, there’s always lots of things to do, and even though there’s not a whole lot of other people in the immediate vicinity he still gets some good practice in. There are not many distractions, and they have an older dog named Magsy who’s pretty chill and loves being taken for runs and playing ball and all those things he doesn’t get to do at home. His grandmother makes the best peanut butter fudge brownies in the universe and he and Taylor gorge themselves on them the first day and he doesn’t even feel too bad about it because it’s summer. The sky’s a little clearer and there’s a lake like, four kilometers away and it’s just nice.

It’s enough to have him relaxing, the knots in his shoulders loosening up enough that he can breathe okay again, and maybe his parents had the right idea about sending them so early and for so long. He’s grateful, not that he’ll ever admit that.

Taylor develops a little bit of a crush on a boy down at the fish shop, which is her own little secret that she fails at keeping. Sidney goes with her to buy bait one day so he can check him out, and he threatens him a little bit because Taylor is his _baby_ sister. She hates him for it for a little while but it was cute and totally harmless because the guy was like, in college, so more than anything he did it just to annoy her anyway. It gives him practice for when she’s in high school.

“You are the worst brother ever,” she hisses as they walk out with a bag of totally unnecessary bait and some floaters. Sidney doesn’t really need them; he doesn’t worship fish like Dutchy, but maybe he’ll try it and see if it is more relaxing and less mind numbingly dull than he remembers it being.

“When you fall for a creep just because he’s pouty and he plays guitar, you will thank me.”

“You mean if I fall for a guy like you?”

“Nice try; I don’t play guitar.”

She actually laughs at that, and Sidney takes a few seconds to take a deep breath and just enjoy it. His sister’s pretty cool, for a sister.

He’d thought, initially, that he might miss the guys but even that went away pretty quickly. Their weird codependent thing fades and he still spends a lot of his time thinking about hockey, and the season, and all the things he’s gonna have to do better next year to avoid a repeat, but that’s not so much angst inducing as _helpful_. He’s gonna have to see if Patch or Bylsma have any tape, or check YouTube or something, and then he can start really focusing and working once he gets back, more than the desultory runs with Magsy or the small scale scrums with Taylor and some of the neighbor kids. He’s sorta looking forward to that, in the way he always looks forward to returning to his routine even though he enjoys relaxing and time off.

Regardless of what his teammates say, he does recognize the need to relax just a little bit. In the proper time and place.

His grandpa takes him fishing a few times with the bait he bought, and he’s still not exactly sure how he feels about the whole experience, but it’s pretty nice to be out there with him. It’s boring, but there’s a certain mindless quality to it that he can possibly come to appreciate, especially since sometimes there’s fish at the end of it, so it’s almost like accomplishing something afterwards.

His grandma makes him help scale and clean them, though, and that sorta sucks a little bit.

“Sidney?” Her voice has always been deceptively soft, even when she’s angry and there’s barbed wire under there. It’s not that bad right now, but there’s a steely edge that has him scrolling through everything he’s done in the past few days just to see if there’s anything worthy of scolding.

“Um. Yeah?” he manages as he wracks his brain, but no. He’s been as painfully dull as always.

She keeps cleaning the fish, her hands sure and steady. “Your mother’s worried about you, you know.”

Oh, _God_ , worst conversation ever. “She’s never mentioned it to me.”

“Yes, well. You became friends with Ovechkin, didn’t you?”

That’s sorta left field. “Um, yeah. We had a class together, and he’s. He’s a pretty cool guy.”

“But you’re not friends anymore?”

No point in denying it. “Not really,” he admits, cutting the guts out with maybe a little more force than necessary. “We had a stupid argument, and then we sorta. Stopped being friends, or something. I mean. I wanted to stay friends, but he got really, really mad at me, and —” He should stop talking.

It looks like she’s waiting for more, and when he doesn’t spill she snorts, turns to look out the window. “That is melodrama levels of stupid, Sidney.”

The worst part is, he can’t disagree.

“Was that before or after you broke up?”

This conversation should really not be taking place around sharp objects. “I. We. It’s not. We didn’t . . .”

“Sidney, please.” She pats his head like he’s four, like he’s freaking _four_ and also like he’s not having a coughing fit in the middle of the kitchen. “Take a few deep breaths and try again.”

He kinda can’t, seeing as how he can’t make himself stop coughing long enough to do something productive, like _breathe_. He knows what hyperventilation feels like, and it’s getting dangerously close to that point when she steers him to a stool, waiting patiently while he chokes for awhile longer. He’d never imagined coming out to his grandmother, but he’s pretty sure fish guts wouldn’t have figured into it if he had. “We didn’t . . .”

“It’s alright. Sidney, you’re not a difficult boy to read. You play hockey, and you practice for when you’re going to be playing hockey next, and when you start talking about a person like they’re actually important . . . well, there’s an easy conclusion to draw from that.” She moves away to wash her hands, and he’s absurdly grateful that he can panic for a few seconds without her watching him before she turns around again.

For some reason the first thing that comes out is “Are you going to say anything?”

She snorts, hands on her hips. “Sidney, your life is your own. You’re nearly full grown now, and you have to realize we all love you no matter what, but honestly. It’s about time you started realizing there’s something outside of hockey, but it’s up to you when or if you want to tell anyone else. Now, what happened? Small words if you need to.”

It all starts to come out, in fits and starts. Sidney’s never had the imagination to tell stories, so it’s almost like he’s giving a practice report when he talks about how he met Alex, how furious the other boy made him, how much he hates the rivalry that got built up, the roles they were expected to play. He gets a little more animated when he starts explaining how annoying he is, how much he wants to punch him but also how he kinda likes that, likes the uncertainty.

She only interrupts once, to murmur “Oh, Sidney,” when he gets to why they broke up, why he apparently dumped Alex even though he’s still ready to swear that that’s not what he meant to do.

He shrugs by the end, toying with his water glass. “And he hates me, and that’s it, I guess.”

His grandmother watches him for a moment before shaking her head. “Sidney, honestly. How you can be so bright and so dense at the same time . . .”

“I really thought it was throwing my game,” he admits, sheepish. “I mean. It made sense at the time, you know how routines are for me, and just. He wasn’t routine, and I was also playing bad, and so it just. It made sense, in a dumb way.”

“Very dumb,” she agrees with a small smile.

“I don’t get it,” he bemoans as he starts to clean yet another fish that he caught in his grandpa’s renewed quest to make him take the stick out of his ass. “He’s not like . . . He’s annoying, and he makes me mad or embarrasses me a lot, and. He’s not even like, attractive or anything.”

She makes a noncommittal sound, probably regretting becoming Sidney’s confidante. “Now, Sidney. That’s not the point.”

“I know, but. Why couldn’t I have my stupid feelings for someone I don’t want to punch?”

There’s a pause while she hands him another fish to work on, making sure he’s still paying attention to sharp knife and fingers and the space between those two things. “Well, you’ve always been one for a challenge, Dear.”

“I. That’s insane.” He manages to maintain the distance between skin and knife, but just barely.

“Sidney, you could not have _assembled_ a better foil for yourself. Now, you took AP English, don’t look like you don’t know what I’m saying.”

Sidney starts cleaning again, focusing on it until he’s moving in sweeps like he actually knows exactly what he’s doing, like he’s been doing this for a long time and doesn’t need to concentrate to get it done right. Once his voice is entirely under his control and not threatening to crack he finally risks pointing out, “Yes, I do know what that means. Thanks.”

“Sidney, I’m not going to tell you anything about how love always comes back or anything like that, because it’s silly. But I will tell you that if you honestly miss Alex, if you want to set things right, you have to call him and actually talk. No excuses, no lies. It’s not guaranteed to get him back, but it’ll settle something between you, and you need that.”

He nods his head, eyes downcast and fixed on the floor because, as always, she’s right. “I know. I just. When we’re back home, I will. I’ll call him, and I’ll try and expla— I’ll _apologize_ , and go from there.” He doesn’t miss the look she gives him.

“Yes,” she agrees, nodding once like it’s settled. “I’m glad we had this talk. Now, the fish aren’t going to finish cleaning themselves.”

||

They settle into an easy routine at the house, and when it comes time to go to town to pick up groceries (because his parents warned them and they stocked up, but not that much) Sidney and Taylor agree to go along. They’re about four kilometers from town when Sidney’s cell phone starts beeping at him, and he pulls it out, staring at the screen.

“Forget how to use that fancy gadget, Shooter?” Taylor teases. She’s already replying to texts and listening to messages, somehow accomplishing both at the same time in a feat of multitasking that has Sidney a little bit in awe of her.

“No, I just. Holy shit.” There are a lot of text messages, and about five or six missed calls. His stomach does something weird inside when one of the calls is from Alex, and somehow he decides that should be the last one he checks, because he doesn’t want to ruin his day if it’s bad. It might be Alex calling because he misses him, but —

But no. That’s stupid. It’s not like absence really makes anyone fonder, it just cements the distance until everyone involved forgets the closeness in the first place.

Nikita has texted him maybe twenty times in the past two weeks, which is actually a downgrade from earlier in the summer. There are still a lot of threats and vague concerns about Alex’s mental health. A few things from Geno and the rest of the guys again, random thoughts that occur to them that for some reason they think Sidney needs to know about. He receives an opus from Max about how amazing Flower’s mom’s cooking is, and he gets the feeling he’s probably drunk and would be embarrassed if he replied to them, so he ignores those.

He starts systematically replying to them, deleting them once he’s done and always apologizing for the delay even though everyone knows he’s out where he’s not gonna be getting back to them for awhile. Dutchy and Jordy reply pretty quick asking about how it’s going; Matt seems distinctly jealous of his vacation if his requests to be adopted are any indicator.

It shouldn’t be a big surprise, because it happens every year, but he misses his guys. They’re all crazy as fuck, but he likes them because of it.

The further down he gets in his messages the harder it is to fight down that disappointment that he can’t help but feel crawling up his throat. There are a few from the guys, just asking him what he’s up to and none of them ask him to call them if he gets a chance because they’re dudes, but it’s sorta nice to know that they’re thinking about him anyway. He’s not surprised to end up with a few drunk dials in the mix, but mostly they’re just asking him how he is.

Alex’s is right at the end. It’s probably best, because then he can just hang up and go on with his life.

“Sidney?” He sounds rushed, maybe a little bit worried or even frightened. “Sidney, Geno say you are gone, but. We need to talk, um.” His voice gets thick, like he’s talking through molasses. His voice is hard to read, the accent seems thicker over the tin of the phone in his ear, and it’s making it difficult to gauge what he means. That’s dumb, because Alex has always been the exact opposite of hard to read.

“I need to talk about this, please. I. Just, we can talk? Please?”

He hangs up without deleting it, and his hands are shaking with the tone in Alex’s voice, the near desperation that’s present where he’s only really heard confidence. Well, and anger. But the anger is new, and his fault.

He needs to call back, while he can. But. Just.

He puts his phone in his pocket. Just _later_.

They end up eating in town, and just bumming around even though there’s not a whole lot for them to do. They play in an old arcade for awhile and Sidney proves himself laughingly inept at Pac Man while Taylor blows him out of the water, and they get ice cream and it’s pretty cool. He likes the cabin and the isolation, and he can totally see himself buying one of those someday, where he can just be a hermit and not deal with people.

Well, okay. He’ll need money, but then he’s totally buying one once he has it.

Geno’s the last to get back to him, after they’re already buckled in an heading back, and after some bantering back and forth about how crazy Sidney must be driving his grandparents Geno just sends him a weird, cryptic _wait4 it_. It makes less than a lot of sense, but he’s in the middle of texting back _What?_ when his phone starts ringing, that horrible tone Colby programmed in there that he keeps forgetting to change.

“You could just call, not warn me you’re calling,” he reminds Geno, and the other boy makes a dismissive sounding noise.

“Colby say grandparents live in Yukon?”

He snorts. “No, they don’t live in the _Yukon_. We just have patchy service is all.”

“Oh, I say make no sense. When you come back?”

He looks out the window at the trees, tries to figure out how long they’ve been here and ends up needing to check his phone to see even what _day_ it is. “Um. About another two weeks? We have tickets so that I can get back before your birthday, and then you’re going home when?”

“August. Sid, is no way you make it short?”

“I. No, I mean. We could, probably. But I’m having fun. Surprise, right?”

“Colby not believe. Want photos.”

He got that message. “Yeah, tell him I’ll have a whole slide show. Seriously, is something wrong? Are my parents okay? Should I come back early?”

“You know parents better,” Geno reminds him with a little laugh. “No, just. Alex wonder.”

His stomach clenches. “I tried to talk to him, Geno. You know that. I tried, and. He hung up.”

“I know. Not important, probably.” He sorta sounds like he wants to say something important, but is stopping himself. “Just. Call before your phone die?”

“ _Why_?” It’s not like he enjoys being shot down, even when he deserves it.

“Just. Please, Sidney? You both friends, and fighting hard when I stuck in center.”

“I. Fine. Okay, I’ll call Al . . . him.” He doesn’t miss the way every eye in the car turns towards him and then away in a move out of some sitcom. “I gotta go, so I’ll see you when I get back?”

“Yes, you will see me.”

Sidney’s not sure how he feels about the way Geno sounds, but probably it’s just the tin of the cell making his accent stronger or something.

“I’m gonna call. Someone.”

“Alex?” Taylor asks, ending the standstill he’d gone into.

“Didn’t you call already?” His grandmother sounds mild enough, but he’s pretty sure there’s some trouble in his future if he doesn’t.

“Okay, okay, jeeze.” His hand is shaking just a little bit, but he manages to hit the right buttons and bring the phone up to his ear without losing control and beaning himself in the head with it or anything. “I’m calling.”

He looks at his grandparents, both of whom are pretending not to pay attention to his call. Taylor’s trying to look like Tetris is the most fascinating thing in the whole universe.

The call goes to voicemail immediately, and it’s dumb but he has nothing he knows how to say so somehow he comes out with “Alex, it’s Sid. Sidney. Um. Geno said I should call you, and . . .” He sounds sorta suspicious; that’s probably not optimal. Hopefully the past month hasn’t apparently gifted Alex with any gift for picking up on subtlety. “I. Call me back, if you want to. Um. I’m sorry. I missed you.”

“Smooth,” Taylor can’t resist commenting as he hangs up, and he makes a face at her.

“Shut up, it was fine.” He looks out the window some more, thumb rubbing over the face of his phone so he’s prepping to answer it at a moment’s notice, practicing.

“. . . fuck, I forgot to tell him about the service!”

“Sidney!”

He’s scrambling too much to respond to the snap, but it doesn’t matter because they’re apparently over that magical threshold by the time he manages to get the phone to cooperate, and when he looks at the screen it cheerfully informs him that it is searching for service before it even has a chance to ring.

||

Alex never calls him. Well, he might, but he doesn’t leave a message that Sidney can check from the home line. If things were normal he wouldn’t put it past Alex to pester his parents for the landline so he could bother Sidney, but things aren’t normal even by their loose definition of normal, so he doesn’t hear anything from him.

Technically he could call him from the landline but he’s not exactly clingy or crazy enough to call Alex to leave a message to see if he got the message he originally left for him. So there’s that.

He stops being weird about it after another week, and he can see that his grandparents sorta regret taking him into the city with them. It was like relapse, quiet and unsure until Taylor slapped his hand away from his mouth one evening, reminding him that hockey players can’t play without fingers, and if he kept chewing his nails he would reach that point sooner rather than later.

Actually, she’d said something more like “Sidney, freaking stop it or you’ll lose your fingers and be useless to hockey,” but the sentiment was there.

Sidney would love for getting home to feel amazing, like he’s just waking up from a long rest and ready to tackle the world again. It is, sorta. He definitely feels ready to hit the world running, but it’s more from boredom and stagnation than because he’s so rested that he’s just stoked to burn off all that carefully preserved energy. He’s so ready to just _go_ and he calls a few of the guys as soon as he gets home for a scrum. They play street hockey in front of his house, Sidney’s in goal because Flower was apparently busy not doing hockey related things and he’s so laughably bad it’s amazing.

It’s not like he’s not grateful for the break. Without it he probably wouldn’t be this excited about playing street hockey with his team. He would have been doing it all month and probably people wouldn’t be playing with him anymore because he’d have driven them nuts.

He knows how life works; sometimes his team needs a break from him, too. The C sorta goes both ways on that.

He keeps trying to call Alex. It always goes to voicemail.

They don’t talk about anything at all really, they just play and shit-talk and it’s pretty excellent. Geno’s having his birthday later in the week, just a casual little thing, and then he’s going back the week after that. Sidney’s sorta sick with the idea he’s not gonna have Geno to hang out with anymore, but that’s part of the bargain of exchanges, really.

Alex left no messages on his phone when he can finally check it, and he’s ready to just let that go for the time being. Geno’s party will make it harder to avoid him, and then he can actually _talk_ to him, not just sputter out half formed apologies to his voicemail. He’s gonna _make_ Alex listen to him, even if he has to lock him in a room somewhere and shout apologies through the door so he can’t get away. He’s only 17, and he has time for this.

During the game no one talks about him at all, which is a novel experience. He doesn’t bring him up and no one broaches the subject but he has time enough later.

They drink Gatorade on the porch after Sidney lets in more shots than a cheap hooker. Geno’s host parents dragged him on a bit of a sightseeing trip while Sidney was gone, apparently wanting him to see more of the country before he goes back. The trip sounds cringe worthy but he seemed to enjoy it enough that it wasn’t a waste. Colby’s just been home doing not much of a lot, Jordy and Marc have been doing farm related things (as near as Sidney can figure it involved heavy machinery but he’s not sure what sort or what it did) and they promise to bring Eric to the party so he can say hi to everyone. The sun’s pretty warm and Sidney’s getting tight in his arms like sunburn, and he tries to ignore how his gut keeps telling him that this would be better if Alex were around. They’re not talking about him at all and that’s excellent.

“So, Geno. I mean, what do you want for your birthday?”

“Same,” he says with a little smile, his English coming easier than it was at the beginning of the year. “Go first in draft. If not that, I need sticks and tape.”

There’s a lot of ribbing about how he’d better get on that or Sidney’s gonna go before him and screw up the curve entirely, which he shrugs off with a sheepish smile.

“No problem. And I promise, I’ll sign all your gear if you bring it by the awesome mansion I’m gonna buy with all my millions someday.”

“You’d better have us living with you in your awesome mansion that you buy with your millions, because you’re shit without us.” Colby’s elbow is sharp in his thigh when he digs it in, and it devolves into a free for all pretty quick after that, which is eventually settled by Xbox when his mom tells them to stop scaring the neighborhood children with their behavior.

He almost calls Alex a few times, over the next few days. Gets as far as dialing before setting his phone aside and ignoring it for a few hours for good measure. There’s time for that, too, and he never exactly sees Alex calling him so it’s probably even.

He coordinates with Colby to make sure that he doesn’t get Geno the same thing. He’s gonna end up with half of a poorly wrapped sporting goods store however he slices it, so Sidney doesn’t delude himself into thinking he’s getting anything original, or even particularly awesome. But it’s functional and that’s good, too.

It’s almost sad that he doesn’t actually go to birthday parties very much, but most of the people who would invite him are on the team anyway, and he’s not deluded into thinking he has friends or anything. The whole thing is being hosted more by Patch and his family, like the barbeque at the beginning of the season was, and Sidney doesn’t let himself feel deluded that it’s anything except a goodbye to the team as it was.

He’s relieved that it’s Patch hosting it, though. Geno’s host mom has never really adapted to the whole ‘hockey player’ thing, and she still has a tendency of hovering like she’s scared things are gonna get broken just from the combined presence of more than one player at a time. They’d probably not have a whole lot of fun in that scenario, whereas out in the park they can play football (badly). Cooke keeps trying to toss a ball around since he’s gonna be in the US in a few months and he’s decided this is a skill he needs to learn. He’s really, really bad at it though, and he hits TK in the feet more than he does anywhere where he might have a chance of doing something about it.

“Wrong type of football,” TK reminds him after the five-millionth time he does it. “I know it’s called football, but you aim for the hands.”

“Fuck you.”

“Better get on that, you’re leaving in a few months.”

Sidney laughs, just enough that it looks normal, and vanishes to find Geno. There are quite a few parents, too. Some of the guys brought their girlfriends, and it’s crowded enough that he has to go on a concentrated search for Geno, trying to figure out where he went to so he can give him his gift, rather than just dumping it on the table where, if the shapes are any indication, Geno really does have half a sports store waiting for him to unwrap.

Finally he catches him by the food table, where Geno is indulging his somewhat worrisome love of coleslaw. It’s his party, but he still gets a little overwhelmed by crowds when he’s not on the ice and Sidney knows the ‘I need to get away’ look on his face well enough at this point.

“Hey. So.” He pokes him, shoving the box of hockey tape into his hands. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you,” Geno says with equal solemnity, taking it and then hugging Sidney, quick and loose. They’re not really the sort of guys who bro hug, but he pats his back a few times. “You good friend, Sidney.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He blushes a little, eyes scanning the crowd. “Thanks for getting Nikita off my back, too. He’s down to threatening me once or twice a day. Seriously, you’d think he had Alex passed out on his carpet the way he's carrying on about it.”

“You welcome. Sid, I need to say . . .”

“Where is Alex, anyway? I figured he would be here, but I haven’t seen the usual horde that normally accompanies him.” Normally Alex attracts a posse no matter whose party it is, just because he’s Alex, and he grabs for attention like a drowning man with a rescue dog.

“Sid, I need to tell . . .”

“He’s probably avoiding me, right? Listen, I’ll ask Colby, so you don’t have to break the Russian Code of Silence he probably swore you to.”

“Alex not here, Sid.”

He stops, going still and feeling his shoulders drop down. “I worried you were going to say that. Is he avoiding me? Because, like. I don’t wanna ruin your party, but I sorta really need to talk to him. I was dumb and I need to say ‘sorry’ so that he knows I mean it, and . . .”

“Sidney, Alex went back to Russia two weeks ago.”

He turns around to see Colby standing just a little bit off with a plate of pulled pork. “Huh?” Turning back to Geno he sees the same look, resigned and a little worried. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, he flew back home like, two weeks ago. While you were still at your grandparent’s.” Colby is holding himself cautiously, speaking softer than he’s ever heard him speak, but he doesn’t look away from Geno because Geno is Alex’s friend, but he was his friend before he ever knew Alex and Sidney has a right to know things, even things that don’t concern him because he and Alex aren’t even speaking any more, and.

They look really serious.

“Sidney, we wanted to tell you, but Alex. He was so just. He wasn’t Alex about it, Geno wouldn’t say why but . . .”

“Holy fuck.” He shakes his head a little, but it’s not catching. Something’s slipping inside his brain and it’s not catching. “Wow. That’s. I mean, really? _Russia_?”

“It’s um. It’s where he’s from Sid.”

“But Geno’s still here. Geno, you’re still here.”

Geno’s looking at him like he’s not sure if speaking is a good idea. And, well. English isn’t exactly working out for Sidney, so he can see why he might not want to risk it. “Yes, I still here,” he agrees after a few seconds, and then Sidney turns to Colby. He can feel himself blinking a lot. He can’t seem to stop.

“Colby, why did no one say anything? I’ve been back for a week now, why didn’t someone tell me my friend was gone?”

He looks properly sheepish, a little worried, and he shrugs, looks over at Geno. “Sidney, we figured. Well, with the way you were fighting, I mean. Alex didn’t care if he heard from you or not, and we couldn’t reach you anyway, so . . .”

“Alex didn’t care?”

Probably, under normal situations, his hands would be shaking. He’d be shaking and a little bit incoherent, because after that question they both just look at him with varying levels of concern.

What he does instead is set down his plate, very carefully. He shakes his head once, and then picks it back up again.

“Huh. That’s too bad. We probably had a lot of things that needed to be said, but. That’s too bad.” Yeah, okay. He’s kinda having a hard time breathing again, and it sucks but he can handle it. “Do you think anyone brought enough stuff for us to play a little, or . . . Actually, once Geno unwraps his gifts we’ll be fine.”

“Sid, you? You okay?”

He looks at Geno, shrugs a little and throws away the last of his food. “Yeah, I’m fine. We’re gonna play, or what?”


	13. Chapter 13

Sidney’s weirdly, incoherently proud of himself. Who would have ever thought that years of being Sidney Crosby would finally pay off in significant, non-hockey related ways?

If he has a reaction he doesn’t show it. Not at the remainder of the party, not when he promises to see Geno in a few days to hang out before he leaves. Probably he should have had a reaction at that point, but it’s a while off, and he'll deal when it happens. Live in the present and all that.

He gets home, and he goes to bed at a reasonable hour, and he wakes up and goes for his run. It’s kinda a boring run, but he likes dashing through his neighborhood this early sometimes. Lawns are getting watered and people are slowly starting to wake up and look around, and it’s peaceful and easy and nice.

When he gets home he has to shower, and that’s when things start slamming into him, one by one and piece by piece.

It’s like being stuck between the pipes.

The first thing that starts it is the sudden realization that the message from Alex, the one he never deleted, that’s all he has left. He has Alex sounding alternately unsure and uncaring, and that’s _all_ he has.

He has Alex sounding not at all like Alex, and that’s _it_.

He has memories of Alex smiling and laughing and making stupid, pointless and inappropriately funny jokes, but all that he has left that’s tangible, that’s something he can hear and know instead of remember and doubt, is Alex on his phone sounding like he doesn’t care about anything in the world.

He has Alex calling him Sidney, not Sid, and that is all.

The floor of the shower is weirdly cold, even with the hot water, and he has to tuck his knees into his chest to keep from shivering, and he just stares ahead while the spray drips into his eyes.

Alex is in Russia. And that’s. It’s half a planet away. He has no idea how to reach him even if he knew what to say, but he has no idea what to say, either. So it all balances out, or something.

He has Alex’s ugly ass sweatpants folded up in the bottom of one of his drawers like a secret.

And he has the message.

Sidney’s not sure when he starts to cry, because it’s indistinguishable from the water running down his face. His eyes are burning when he finally drags himself out of shower, skin an ugly red from water that he’d turned too hot because he can’t stop shivering on the cold shower floor.

He never put words to what they had, so he isn’t even sure how to begin to put words to what they suddenly _aren’t_.

A lot of words come to mind, ones like ‘never’ and ‘broken’ and ‘grief’, but they feel about as pointless as the words he’d tried to put to it back then, as incomplete and worthless. There’s just not a whole lot of anything that can properly express it for him.

So he’s left with ‘something that was something and now is nothing’ and ‘something that was good that I managed to ruin’. He’s not good at leaving things be, he’s a confronter, a fixer, and—

 _The number you dialed is no longer in service. Please hang up and try your call again_.

Sidney doesn’t throw up, even though he can feel his stomach tensing like he wants to, the housing of his phone creaking in his hand. Instead he does something productive, puts his phone on the bedside table and pulls on Alex’s sweat pants just so he can feel them against his skin when he curls against the headboard of his bed. He’d wanted to give them back, because he kinda hates them, but somehow he just never got around to it.

The bed makes a sound as he settles in, and his mind moves briefly to Alex here, and then he tries to not think about how the only memory he has of waking up to Alex happened in a bed he’s never gonna see again, because it’s so unnecessarily maudlin that it’s below him, or something.

The phone is in his hand before he’s aware of it, and he has to hang up on the first ring, Geno’s number disappearing off his screen because he can’t ask him how Alex was doing. _Is_ doing. He doesn’t have the right.

He _gave up_ the right to care about that, and he can’t just throw a fit to get it back.

He can’t even tell himself that he did his best because, just like losing when he’s playing sick instead of playing smart, he _didn’t_ do his best.

He screwed up, and he let it just stay that way like he didn’t even care enough to fix it, and that’s just.

It’s so stupid.

Unfortunately at some point he has to drag himself out of bed so that he can eat dinner and he doesn’t miss the worried looks on his parent’s faces, but he doesn’t have a lot that he can say about it, either. He can’t exactly just admit that his not epic love affair ended with some pretty epic distance because Russia is _half a world away_ , because he doesn’t even have the words for it. So he just doesn’t say much of anything.

His mom rubs his shoulder on the way to do dishes, and he goes back up to his room and spends a lot of time just picking at the hem of his pants and wondering if they’re officially his now, or if he should still think of them as Alex’s.

He wants to still think of them as Alex’s.

He doesn’t want it to become a thing.

He wants to move on, he wants to take Alex’s stupid pants off and just . . . be better or something.

He tries, he really does. But apparently it’s not something he can just _get over_ , that he can like, practice himself into accepting.

He manages to keep doing his usual things, but only after a solid two days just curled up in his room watching clips of their games on YouTube. His mom looks at him like she’s really proud that he’s showered and dressed and not turning into some sort of scary emo mountain man in his bedroom anymore. Which doesn’t count, because he can barely grow scruff and he’s pretty sure he’s not ever going to get better at it.

When she asks, he can’t tell her anything helpful, so he doesn’t.

He just passes it off as missing routine, the team going different ways, things that relate to hockey and not things relating to the life he somehow managed to develop outside of hockey. She buys it, because she has no reason not to. Sidney doesn’t lie.

The thing is, everything keeps moving whether he wants it to or not. He’s never been good at dramatics, and things start to just get better because they probably can’t get worse. Which of course is stupid, no matter how messed up things are they can always get worse, or at least more awkward, which is proven when his grandmother calls after about four days, and he doesn’t even try to hide it from her.

“I just. I didn’t think at all,” he admits, and he’s not crying but his voice is more monotone than usual. Only instead of hiding inflection, he just can’t be bothered with it. It’s a fine distinction, but it’s a real one. “I knew he was going back, but. I thought I’d have time to fix this, I just. I thought I had time.”

“You don’t have to be in such a hurry for everything.” He loves his grandmother, he just wishes she were a little less cryptic sometimes. “Sidney, you’re only 17. My mother lived until ten years ago, and she was nearly 93. There’s plenty of time for you, if you don’t smoke.”

He can sorta get at she means, but it doesn’t help much. Having time does him no good when he has no way of using it.

The thing about the universe, though, is that it doesn’t really care what he thinks or how he feels about how it’s running. Things keep happening, and he has to work on getting over it because Geno is also his friend, and he’s learned his lesson about how Russia is apparently hell bent on giving and then taking away some of the few people he cares about.

Plus, Nikita is starting to get weirdly overinvested in his friendship with Geno now that the Saga of Sidney and Alex has reached its unenviable conclusion.

“Tell Nikita this isn’t his own personal docudrama,” Sidney tells him when Geno shows up at his door.

“You not have Sasha as back monkey also,” Geno says, and he seems distinctly gloomy so maybe Sidney should be relieved. “I can come in?”

“Yeah, totally.” He hasn’t forgotten entirely how to be a person. He went grocery shopping by himself yesterday and everything. All they needed was some detergent, but still. He totally had to interact with people, and he did okay.

“So. You’re um. You’re going back to Russia soon, too.” He leads Geno into the living room without asking, tossing him a controller.

“Yes.” Geno plays with it for a moment, just staring like he’s not sure what it is or what it’s supposed to do.

“Are you excited, or kinda sad, or?” He's not asking only about Geno's feelings about going home. He's asking about Alex by not asking. Both of them seem to know it, but it's unacknowledged.

“Both. I miss family, but will miss friends here.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I get that. It’s gonna be weird when I go to university, and I’m like, not even going to a different country. Well. We looked at a few in the US, but the campuses are kinda weird so I don’t think I’m gonna be applying. NHL?”

“Is fine.”

Geno’s a good player, he knows how to trash talk better than he did when he first started out at the beginning of the year, and there’s a proficiency there that’s pretty impressive when Sidney really pays attention to him. He’s not as hyper competitive as some of the guys but he doesn’t exactly roll over to Sidney’s superior skills or anything like that either.

Mostly because he keeps winning.

Sidney stares at the score on the screen, then resets. “Best of five.”

“Okay.”

He knows that his mom is hovering, partially because she keeps bringing things in to them. And she seems disappointed in him, but he doesn’t have anything that desperately needs to be said to Geno. They’re spending the time the way they want to, and that’s great and exactly what they want to be doing.

Geno stays for lunch, and then they go back to playing. Sid takes the next one, and Taylor joins them for a little while until she gets bored watching them play.

“I’m gonna miss you, Geno,” she tells him, and she sounds really, really honest about it. “You’re one of Sid’s cool friends.” And then she hugs him, which is sorta weird but it also gives Sidney the chance to score while Geno’s distracted and puts him less pathetically behind than he was before.

“Say hi to Ovie for me,” she throws over her shoulder and he agrees. Sidney does not bite his lip, because it was already chapped.

He. Can’t ask that. He gave up the right to care about how Alex is. Taylor didn’t.

Geno wins the next, and Sidney can either take it to seven like they’re playing each other for the Cup, or he can give up.

He ends up winning the next two, so game six is up for grabs when his mom comes in, flipping through the mail.

“Sid, your grandmother sent you a card. Remember to write her a thank you note, okay?”

“I will,” he promises, taking it from her and setting it to the side.

Geno wins the next one and Sidney finally admits defeat, tossing his controller down and jamming his legs under the cushion.

“Those Alex’s pants.” Geno doesn’t sound questioning, and they’re not exactly a subtle pair so Sidney just nods.

“I forgot . . . Listen, if you want I can get these to you before you go and you can take them back to him. If you ever see him.”

“Russia big country.”

“Yeah, it. Never mind. It’s not important. He probably doesn’t want them.”

“Probably not,” Geno agrees mildly, and Sidney curls up a little bit more. “But because he know they with you. That mean something to Sanja, I think.”

He snorts. “Alex hates me. No, it’s.” His voice on the message. “He doesn’t care anymore. He doesn’t even hate me, it’s just that he couldn’t care less.”

“Is what you think?” Geno sighs, sits back. “Sidney, Alex still care. He . . . what you call? Opportunist?”

He laughs; it’s probably not what Geno meant, but it’s true. “Optimist?”

“Yes. Sidney, he hope. Right to end he hope, I tell him to hope because Sidney Crosby give up on nothing.”

That shouldn’t make him feel as lousy as it does.

Geno goes home not long after that, and Sidney wanders back into the living room, slouching onto the couch and tearing open the card from his grandmother that he’d forgotten about.

He reads it, and his heart is skipping and jumping around a lot by the time he gets to the end of the hand written _thesis_ she somehow managed to cram in there, but by the end . . .

By the end of it he looks at the card, and he smiles a little, reaching for his phone. He has family; he has hockey. He has _time_ enough for everything, and sometimes that’s all he can hope for. Sometimes that’s enough. He just needs to have the nerve to make a few choices that he’s not sure of.

“Hey, Geno? You need a ride to the airport?”

||

Nothing gets better overnight. But things get better with time, and the air even smells different in his lungs when he shoulders the duffle, nudging Geno towards the counters in the airport. He’s not exactly an expert traveler; probably Geno is a hell of a lot better at this than him, but he’s always Captain even without his jersey, so he directs him like he is.

“Yes, I see.” Geno rolls his eyes. “I fly more than you, Sid.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“No but. I fly more; is fact. Not need help with this, you take bags.”

“Right, right. Like a bag boy, right.” But he shoulders the pack a little bit higher and lifts another bag. It makes sense Geno’s flying with this much; he’s been gone nearly a whole year. Sidney flies with about an eighth of this.

Voices kinda lap over him as he waits for Geno to come back, and he kicks his sneaker into the horrible flooring and doesn’t even try to understand any of what anyone is saying, because this is sorta a bigger deal than listening to random conversations is, anyway.

He hears Geno’s voice rising above the ambient noise, and he keeps his head tucked low with his brim down, and he doesn’t look up until Geno’s in spitting distance. He’s not a big fan of dramatic farewells or anything, but he needs time to get his feelings under control because he’s not gonna embarrass himself in public, even though he’ll never see any of these people ever again, if the universe is just.

When he has himself under control he risks glancing up. Nikita is plastered to Geno’s side like a second skin, as close as he can be in public and Alex is blinking at him, lips drawn tight over his teeth. It's not his stupid smile, but that starts to spill over his face slowly, hitting his eyes before his mouth.

“Sid?”

“Hey,” he offers with a little shrug, shouldering his bag a little higher, meeting Alex’s eyes dead on. “So, turns out Geno’s flight had an extra seat.”


	14. Chapter 14

When Alex gets back into bed he guides Sidney’s hands to his ass without a word, helping him get him ready. Sidney can’t get over what it feels like, sliding his fingers into Alex’s unresisting body as he lubes him up, trusting and following Alex’s every clue like he’s elbows deep in a great play, everything instinctive and effortless as he rolls the condom on, lets Alex scramble on top of him and work his hips down onto Sidney’s. He’s pressing his shoulders down into the mattress for leverage, but for once Sidney’s totally okay with it, because he can just rest his hands on Alex’s hips and watch him fall apart as he fucks himself on Sidney.

He’s grateful for the orgasm last night, or it’d probably be over embarrassingly quick. Alex is impossibly tight around him, almost painfully so but painful in all the best ways and he slams himself down on Sidney, coming with a harsh cry as he clumsily jerks him off. Still clumsy, but that's okay. He's figuring it out. There's a lot to figure out.

“Not that I not glad to see you, because clearly I am.” Alex still sounds a little out of breath and Sidney lets himself gloat over that a tiny bit, leaning over him and kissing him again before flopping back on the sweaty hotel pillow. “But. How?”

He stares at the ceiling. “I’m gonna have to get a few more student loans than I was planning on, but I have a grandma who seems to think that’s a small price to pay for using some of my early graduation present while I have time.”

Alex starts laughing, pinning Sidney to the bed under him, kissing and touching and he’s so glad to be back here that he can’t even bring himself to be bothered by the whole being touched so much thing. “She sound very wise.”

“She is.” He leans up to kiss him, humming happily against his lips. The room doesn’t reek yet, but it’s going to. He vaguely feels bad for housekeeping in that way where he wouldn’t change it for anything. “I’m so sorry, Alex.”

He makes a small sound, hand teasing down his belly. “Is not important. You came to Russia, that mean more than what happened.”

Heat curls into his belly, following the line of Alex’s hand. “Still. I was stupid. I’m sorry.”

“Try it without the face you use when you saying ‘good game’ after you lose,” Alex teases, and Sidney reaches to smack his hand away but can’t bring himself to when it feels so good, and he’s missed it so much.

“I mean it.”

“I know, Sid. I forgive you. I was bad, too. Well. I did nothing at first, but I didn’t do good later.”

He grunts, the words are hard to get out but he has to say them, as stupid and meaningless as they are.

“I still don’t. I don’t know what you want. From me. _This_.”

Alex looks at him, and his expression is something unreadable, even to Sidney. Even after all this time. “I want same thing everyone want, Sidney. Want to be fulfilled. Want to be happy. Want to win all the hockey awards ever made. Even ones for goalies.” He waggles his eyebrows.

“I want.” Sidney bites his lip, looks away. “I want a Stanley Cup, someday. I want my number retired in the rafters somewhere. But, I. Uh. I want the rest of that, too. I think I want it with you.”

He lied; Alex’s smile is probably the best thing in the universe.

“Yes, same here. Only I win those before you.”

Sidney ponders smothering him to death, but settles for straddling his hips and kissing him instead.  



End file.
